


I Know Places

by ahandfulofdust



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 'baroque hades nonsense' is a real phrase I have written, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Canon-Typical Violence, Chilton for Agent of the Year, F/F, Gen, Hannibal is fancy as ever and writes for Vanity Fair, Hannigram is the new Brangelina, I promise this is not nearly as cracky as it sounds, M/M, Multi, Other, actual fisherman grandpa Will Graham hates athleisure, hannibal may or may not be a cannibal, hello celebrity cameos, literally the most ridiculous meet-cute you have ever read, low-key referencing Taylor Swift, media fic, organic coffee might be a pun, real Los Angeles locations oy, shopping trips to replace Will's bad furniture, super cringey trope-y setup, vaguely inspired by the Gossip Girl book format in some places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 92,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahandfulofdust/pseuds/ahandfulofdust
Summary: Will Graham, a former sculpture artist turned indie method actor who has just been cast in a blockbuster trilogy, has no earthly idea how to Hollywood, leading to low popularity ratings that don't please the movie's studio backers. His agent, the wily Frederick Chilton, dreams up the oddest solution: enlist Beverly Hills socialite, psychiatrist and LACMA patron Hannibal Lecter to both keep a watchful eye on Will and pose as his boyfriend, generating good press. Foolproof. Kinda. Except when Will gets a little too close to his character and finds himself implicated in string of gruesome LA killings.[Now with notes at the end of each chapter detailing "easter egg" references to lines or images from episodes]





	1. It’s a bad sign, bad sign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's agent has a marketing idea. Will is profoundly skeptical.

Will Graham cursed under his breath upon flipping the light switch and finding it useless. The sculpture studio remained dark, with no helpful windows to let in some of the witching hour half-light. 

The long, coarsely unfinished, garage-like space was tricky to navigate even when illuminated - too many table corners, rolling metal carts, scattered ladders and step stools, and various pointed implements that would be murder to step on. But hell if he were going to waste his trip all the way down here, after setting his heart on working until morning to be nightmare-free. 

He would try the fuse box. If he felt along the walls, stepping carefully around loosely discarded wood and metal scraps, surely he could find it. Letting the heavy door shut behind him, Will put a hand to the wall and passed it over a bulletin board, a mounted shelf, a hanging ladder, and pinned up designs hastily sketched on scraps with charcoal, approaching the far end of the room by inching along in the dark. Still no fuse box.

And then something curdled inside, because coming from the far end of the studio was a soft, steady dripping sound, previously barely audible over the fluttering noise of sculpture sketches beneath Will’s palm. 

It hadn’t rained. The room had no sink.

He paused to let his eyes adjust to the near total darkness. The studio fell away. As though sealed in a tunnel, he became aware of only two things: the dull thumping in his ribcage, and the materializing outline of something mounted like an offering on a set of branches -

Not something. Someone, pierced through by the antlers of a stag as though fallen from some great height, blood dripping from sharp points with a hollow  _ plink-plink-plink  _ to pool on the linoleum floor. And Will was alone - he was alone here - he was shut in the dark with this thing - with this nightmare masterpiece - and the only instinct lighting up his body besides the instinct to run was a surprising knee-jerk envy that he could not push back down - a terrible envy that someone else had conceived of and shaped this radical image before he had -

_ \- - -_

__  


Shaken awake by a myoclonic jerk, Will opened his eyes to brittle early-morning sunshine and his phone lightly skittering across his nightstand. He didn’t need to flip it over to know who it was, or why they were calling. His agent could wait. 

It was a full ten minutes before he could find it in himself to jerkily disentangle his limbs from sweaty sheets and rise from the bed. The room was suffused with an enemy edge, a spillover from last night’s dreams, and the tingling sensation of hair standing up along his arms made him feel as though there were someone else in the condo too. Like one of his dogs, left behind in New York for the time being, he stood perfectly still at the open bedroom door, ears pricked up, listening for movement. 

Nothing. 

Well. Nothing but stacks and stacks of still-unpacked boxes and a welcome-to-the-neighborhood potted plant that remained miraculously alive. 

Then he felt stupid. It had been ages since he’d used that particular studio, and so many details had been ever so slightly  _ off  _ \- a dreamscape rendering of the room in which he’d once planned and crafted most of his art school senior project. He should’ve known from the instant his fingers touched the light switch that he was asleep.

Unused to the new kitchen, Will opened a few drawers before he found his stash of cheap instant coffee, then set the electric kettle to boil. While he waited, he began putting cups away in cabinets, intending to clear the cluttered formica countertop when a loose scrap of some sort gave him pause. Surrounded by casually sorted silverware lay a page torn out of a sketchbook, the sharp angles and noisy lines clearly done in Will’s hand. He rotated it slowly, the rush of being shut in a dark studio creeping back into his nerves, setting his spine alight.

It was a rough drawing of a girl impaled on antlers, their pointed tips bursting from pale, broken skin like crocus buds from snow.

He crumpled the thing and buried it in the trash.

He had no recent memory of putting charcoal to paper at all.

But what a thing - what a marvelous, striking, twisted thing - to sculpt someday.

_ \- - - _

__  


_ TMZ, 5 April 2013. Will Graham - that scruffy former artist who seems to be in every Sundance movie these days and is soon to star in the highly anticipated steampunk  _ Ripper  _ trilogy - was dragged away from a vodka launch party last night at 1 Oak.  _

_ Sources tell TMZ that Will might’ve had too much to drink and passed out...falling face-first into the lap of Selena Gomez, who “he doesn’t know and has met, like, once,” according to a party guest. When Will came to and started yelling and thrashing, Selena’s mystery date closed in and things got physical. Both men were ejected from the party.  _

_ We reached out to Will’s management for comment and were told he was suffering from a bad bout of the flu.  _

He lowered the tablet, just so, and peered over the top of it at the bottoms of his Pucci-suited agent’s Ferragamo oxfords, obnoxiously propped up yet again on his faux-midcentury desk. It was getting harder and harder to make eye contact with Frederick Chilton these days. The 160 degree lean-and-prop was solidly becoming the agent’s go-to defensive posture - his sprawling, man-spreading answer to the fetal position. These precarious days, all Will saw of Chilton were the leather soles of those damn shoes. That, and Chilton’s painfully self-conscious arrangement of luxe desk accessories that were barely ever touched.

“The flu,” Will echoed dimly. Incredulously. He had been having these episodes for weeks now - Chilton knew that. It didn’t feel like anything quite so normal as the fucking flu. 

His agent merely bobbed pointedly in response, cartoon-villain office chair squeaking forlornly beneath him. 

A sudden thump nearby made Will whirl in his seat. A harried-looking intern with a venti Starbucks in hand and a bluetooth device in ear had slammed a sheet of paper against the glass wall. CALL MGM 3PM, it said. Then he was gone, leaving a skylit view of a railing and a glaringly white, desk- and potted palm-filled atrium below. 

Chilton mumbled around a well-chewed pen cap, “What’s the alternative? Disclose something chronic? The studio would panic. And to be fair, you did have a low-grade fever when I hauled you off that girl. Plus, illness racks up more forgiveness points than drunkenness.”  He nudged a tray of generously frosted cupcakes across the desk with his foot. “TMZ sent you get-well treats from Sprinkles. All morning I’ve been trying to work out if this was sardonic or not.” 

Will could guess. His expression was grim as he waved the tray away, got to his feet with a strangled groan, and began to pace infinity loops into the berber rug. If he peered closely he could almost see where years of other clients’ previous crises had worn faint tracks into the abstract design. 

He wasn’t built for this - sidestepping awkward situations, anticipating reactions,  _ giving a shit  _ what opinions and consequences might be. Never mind concealing a mounting series of inexplicable health episodes from the general public and trying to act unaffected by his mounting night terrors. He wasn’t Hollywood material. Hell, he had sailed into the building that morning - pale, haggard, smelling slightly of sweat - wearing last year’s L.L. Bean, and parted a sea of unimpressed, tanned blondes in so-called business athleisure with grumpy relish.

“I shouldn't have let you make me go to that. I should call her team,” Will threw out, running clammy hands through unwashed hair. (Chilton’s eyes followed their movement, and a vein pulsed in his temple.) “Apologize.” 

At that, Chilton finally shot up, nearly upsetting the cupcakes. He often possessed the look of a mildly affronted stubbly owl, and when his eyes went wide, as they did now, the stark flatness of his brows exaggerated the resemblance.

“I  _ beg _ your - no. Abso-fucking-lutely not. You are the opposite of qualified to handle this. You are very not qualified. I’m not going to ask you if you’re on something - that’s not my business - but. Will. Did you shower this morning?” Each turn of phrase was punctuated with a stabbing motion courtesy of chewed pencap. “On top of all this, you are  _ pathologically  _ weird and will put us both out of a job since yesterday. And since I would like to remain not unemployed, we will fix things my way.  _ And  _ give you a needed boost for the trilogy and the good folks at MGM.“ 

The last bit slipped out over steepled, manicured fingers in a manner that suggested Chilton had been mulling this over for weeks on his porcelain throne, refining the blueprints in preparation for this day. 

So there it was. The  _ Ripper  _ trilogy hadn’t even started production yet, and already it was becoming this thick, viscous Thing seeping into all the corners of Will’s life. He had to wade through its monstrous stickiness to go anywhere or to do anything - every statement was scripted, every outing rehearsed - all to make sure he didn’t make any wrong moves and embarrass the studio at the box office. 

He didn’t even run his own social media anymore, not after a misstep with Instagram and a context-free photo of an unidentified reptilian skeleton on a sidewalk. (Eighty percent of the comments read “????”) After that, his agent had watched while Will deleted most apps from his phone and scrawled all his passwords onto a fresh page of Chilton’s monogrammed Smythson agenda. Will could do nothing that ran the risk of leaving a bad taste in a potential moviegoer’s mouth. Apparently the audience had to like you as a person. Apparently that made a difference. 

He allowed himself to imagine stringing Chilton up from a ceiling fan by his flamingo pink tie and leaving him there to spin until his housekeeper found him one morning, but somehow he didn’t think that helped mitigate his  _ pathological weirdness  _ to any observable degree _.  _ He thought of sculpture studios and antlers and the  _ plink-plink-plink  _ of blood. He thought of camera flashes at night and of the press starting to ask why Will had taken this role anyway - why this material, of all things? This was the end of his relative isolation and freedom, he was sure of it. And it wasn’t safe for him to lose his privacy - someone would become suspicious.

Eleven years out of MICA in Baltimore and six years into an acting career that began purely by accident, he had been perfectly content - or at least reasonably stable - taking quirky roles in independent films that rarely made it to Cinemark. The roles were capital-S Serious and garnered an award nomination here and there, but for the most part, they were nowhere near big enough to get him recognized at the dog park, which he relished. Before this, his biggest event was a Tribeca Q&A. Before this, he was in Los Angeles twice a year to check in with Chilton, and back out the same evening on a red-eye to LaGuardia. 

Tonight he would text his old roommate - now living solo on the Lower East Side unless you counted Will’s many dogs - that he would never speak to her again as due payment for talking him off the fence and into this corporate shitshow of a role. And all because Beverly Katz wanted to see a Will Graham action figure at San Diego Comic Con someday.

It was a while before Will remembered Chilton was still flapping his mouth at him.

“You, Will Graham, are pretty universally disliked right now,” Chilton was saying. “When you were cast you were this oddball indie character actor who dresses like a fisherman grandpa, and now you’re the guy they found walking barefoot and disheveled in the Hills at 4 am on a Tuesday. MGM and half the people who actually know who you are think you’re on drugs. Now - rumors are fun,” he allowed, voice ticking up a little higher like a parent Explaining a Thing to a wayward child, “and we want rumors, but they gotta be the right kind. Which brings us to this admittedly desperate juncture.” A pause for effect. “I’m recruiting you a love interest.”

If not for a bout of sudden-onset paralysis, Will probably would have flipped the desk and called a cab for the airport then and there. Costa Rica might be nice.

He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. It stayed like that for perhaps fifty percent longer than was flattering. 

“Is that...and that’s legal?”

“It’s PR, not prostitution.” Chilton held up a hand. “Though you’d be shocked how often the two might coincide.”

For a time Will’s mind went blank, shorted out by vaguely formed anger and helplessness, his frown deepening so far that the corners of his mouth threatened to drip right off his face. He removed his spindly old-fashioned glasses, passed a palm over his eyes, and dragged it down the length of his face. When he next opened his mouth, it was to press the top of a cupcake into it.

Chilton, at least, seemed to understand, taking this as his cue to fucking explain himself and let Will ride out this wave of shock.  

“Taylor Swift has done it with great success,” Chilton began, tucking into a cupcake himself. He ate paper, pulled a face, spat it directly into a bin and resumed. “Lots of pap pics, coy interviews, a series of ‘dates,’ some holiday breakup scandal and boom - by New Year’s, both parties involved are free to be. Meanwhile internet searches are up, audience investment is strong, public opinion is positive, and albums are selling. Bonus points for cryptic heartbroken tweets. Obviously we’re not dealing in music here but same difference. The principle applies. You are a risk, Will, a huge box office risk - I don’t know why they took you on, but I’m here to make sure you don’t get axed from Harvard, so to speak, like a high school senior caught with pot in his second semester. I have to call MGM - get out.”

Will staggered into the bright hallway feeling quantifiably more irritable than he had upon waking up that morning as a crusty starfish in his sweat-soaked bed and finding that Chilton had been texting him unflattering 1 Oak article links before dawn. The security guard gave him a confused look on the way out, as if she were surprised someone had let him in in the first place.

His head buzzed, and not just from the previous night’s fainting spell and night of uneasy sleep. Surely there was some more control he could wrest from the fake love interest situation. He could threaten to quit. Yeah, and slink back to the East Coast with his tail between his legs to a dramatically reduced pile of scripts from Manhattan filmmakers. 

Or maybe that wasn’t so bad. He could take up sculpture again, but then, wasn’t that what sent him into a career change spiral to begin with? The Graham/Katz apartment could only house so many iron wraiths frozen mid-shriek before the nightmare landscape became too poisonous to live in.

After parking his Volvo station wagon in the drive and fumbling with still-unfamiliar keys at the door, Will returned home to bland, white-walled rooms smelling of hot dust and filled with haphazardly arranged furniture and boxes that, even after all these months, he had neglected to unpack. 

The emptiness was comforting and grounding. The buzzing vanished.

He poured himself two fingers of whiskey in a plastic tumbler and sank into the orange bungee chair in the corner. Stripes of late afternoon light fell across his body from the window. A possibility occurred to him, and he pulled out his phone to fire a quick message to his agent.

_ >> are you taking suggestions _

**_> > possibly, r u offering???_ **

_ >> devil you know and all that. margot verger _

**_> > oh sweetie pls emerge from under ur rock_ ** **_  
_ ** **_> > she came out last yr_ **

**_> > dominant narrative is that U made margot want to take a walk on the other side_ **

_ >> Frederick people don’t BECOME lesbians, they just are _

**_> > i know, i’m just saying it’s dominant narrative_ **

_ >> dominant bullshit _

**_> > shes getting married in fall,  think u kno other bride_ **

Will stared at the screen. He formed a half-response, cleared it, and started again. Chilton must have gotten tired watching the little gray ellipses form in the text window because he continued:

**_> >alana bloom!!!!_ **

Alana Bloom the avant garde director. Alana Bloom,  _ his  _ director, the one he’d worked with years ago on his first non-arthouse-only film. Small fucking world.

Well, that was it. He was fresh out of ideas. Glamorous, offbeat Margot had been his only lifeline, his one shot at being not entirely desperately uncomfortable for the next year or so. They had dated in 2010, if you could call being set up by his old art school roommate at a MoMA event and going on two months of awkwardly distant and traditional activities  _ dating _ . The sex had been infrequent and the conversation polite, and while Will genuinely enjoyed her drawl and her inexplicable, out-of-this-era charm, both parties had behaved as though rehearsing for something else, or perhaps playacting the expectations of invisible others.   

All the same, it would have been brilliant. They remained distantly fond and respectful friends, and it helped that Margot Verger’s family ran  _ Slaughterhouse,  _ a celebrity lifestyle magazine. It would’ve scored points with Chilton well into next decade, as a business plan.

On the countertop, Will’s phone kept dinging jauntily away. 

**_> > u 2 had dead fish chemistry_ **

**_> > see: frankenwalk pap pics fiasco of 2010_ **

**_> > plus u already dated so that pairing is old news_ ** ****__  
  


Will snorted and nearly choked a sip of whiskey down the wrong pipe. He hadn’t known the press had dubbed their rigid-bodied, disconnected appearances in public the “Frankenwalk.” Perfect. Margot’s family hadn’t run the photos of course, but that hadn’t stopped other outlets from running them with the rather unimaginative headline “HEIRESS’S RELATIONSHIP _SLAUGHTER_ ED?” 

More messages same singing in from Chilton, who was as always cheerfully undeterred by Will’s texting manners.

**_> > worry not, i am ON it_ **

**_> > i’ll make sure he’s hot_ **

  
The crease between Will’s brows deepened at the last line. Sometimes he couldn’t stand typos. 


	2. It’s a scene and we’re out here in plain sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A film festival, a meeting, a Skype call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, no beta. Just me being disorganized, all by my onesie

_Just Jared, 6 April 2013. Indie staple and up-and-coming blockbuster leading man **Will Graham** leaves an office in West Hollywood after last night’s party mishap, looking mostly recovered. _

_The 33 year-old actor hid behind vintage specs and stayed comfy and relaxed in a corduroy shirt and khakis._

_MORE PHOTOS INSIDE_

_Posted in: Will Graham, walking, out and about_

\- - -

A number of weeks passed without incident, and before long Will found himself relaxing considerably. Possibly his agent had entirely forgotten his own plan. Chilton, after all, was not known for the ability to follow up or follow through, which Will knew firsthand from watching him tell distant acquaintances they should “meet up and do lunch sometime” with a pained grin. So it was with a relieved but vaguely guilty sense of satisfaction that Will accepted his next assignment from Chilton, which couldn’t possibly have anything to do with faking a torrid love affair. 

Cannes. He was tackling Cannes - all by his onesie.

 _I can’t believe I had to shave for this._ And then: _It's like a vacation_ , he told himself over and over. A protective mantra. If he muttered it under his breath enough - if he focused on it hard enough - the mantra would start to push away the vague, tingly, stomach-turning feeling of there being something else in his apartment that shouldn’t be. For a few days his customary night terrors of _drip-drip-drip_ noises in the dark lessened, replaced with dreams of needlessly uncomfortable social situations. (Why so many forks at a fancy dinner? All forks could do the same thing, couldn’t they?)

Later he repeated his mantra mentally in security getting patted down, on the plane sipping the world’s smallest cup of water, and finally, nearly passed out from exhaustion in the car to the J.W. Marriott in Cannes. Two premieres and a party, and he could be on a flight back to California before passing the 60-hour mark.

Premieres Will could do. He had never been much of a red carpet photo-op person, but even he could fake at least three and a half smiles, wave stiffly, pass off his thousand-yard stare as eye contact with a distant camera, and disappear into the _Palais_ along with a gaggle of others represented by his agency, before doing something monumentally off-putting. If he convinced himself it was another kind of acting - pretending to be Will Graham, Future Movie Star - a premiere wasn’t usually so bad.

So they, too, passed without event. He even came close to enjoying one of the films, a largely silent, meditative piece that took place over the course of a single day and followed a lighthouse keeper as he prepared his property for a storm. There was a lot of negative space, which was kind of what Will thought of his own life as having. Mostly blankness, a kind of raw silence, with objects and faces hovering blurrily at the periphery. 

The silence grounded him at the amfAR gala. But then, he almost didn’t need it. Being nowhere near as famous as the models and performers making their way down to the shoreline gardens of the Hotel du Cap-Eden-Roc, he was not stopped for his photograph or otherwise accosted.

Nursing just a murmur of amused curiosity, he filtered between the Brazilian beauties in plunging gowns and European businessmen wearing watches priced like cars, reading a face here and there. Serial adulterer. Depressed alcoholic. Anxious networker. And Chilton, looking positively green and obsequious at once. 

Not that different from any other crowd, forty-thousand dollar jewelry aside.

Will was helping himself to olives speared on decoratively knotted toothpicks and a gin cocktail when he became aware of a shadow cast across his space by another body so close it was almost pressed up against his own. 

“Don’t react,” said an unidentifiable European accent. It was wispy, with consonants ever so slightly over-enunciated. “I am going to stand here until your fly situation is...resolved.” Will must have looked confused - or worse, terrified - because the stranger added, “No one will see as long as I’m here.”

Well shit. In his mind’s eye, Will could see his Accident-Free Days counter ticking back down to zero. 

Not only was his fly undone, the the gathered hem of his tucked in dress shirt had come partially peeking through like some kind of ventral bunny tail. Flushing, he contained it - and himself - and gave his human shield what he hoped was a nod of polite thanks. Though Will was unable to meet the other man’s eyes as he stood back, he could practically feel him smiling at Will’s grateful bashfulness. The man was wearing an _actual cravat_ , Will noticed with a barely suppressed eyeroll.

He was spared having to make any awkward verbal acknowledgement (“Thank you for helping me hide my fabric boner”?) by a hearty thump on his back and a theatrical boom of a greeting that could only mean Chilton was a) out of his depth socially and overcompensating, and b) rapidly approaching drunk from tipsy. He was accompanied by a stockily built man in what was closer to a business suit than a tux, probably having come directly from a meeting. Will deduced he was too powerful to kick off the guest list on grounds of dress code alone.

“Misssster Graham,” sang Chilton, lingering on the sibilant. “You have friends in high places.”

“Friend?” Will blinked.

“Frederick,” the European stranger said graciously, and Chilton practically beamed at being on first name terms with the man. “Merely getting acquainted with the hors d’oeuvres. I am afraid I am better friends with my cocktail than I am with your Mr. Graham thus far.”

Will had not escaped having a speaking moment then. Even he could catch that particular social cue. Still not meeting the man’s eyes, he held out a suddenly clammy hand, trying not to think of how Cravat Guy had just witnessed him use the same hand to artfully arrange the various layers of fabric and zipper at his crotch. 

“Will,” he offered dumbly.

“Hannibal Lecter.” 

The handshake that followed was mercifully brief, and Lecter was too polite to let Will see him wipe Will’s hand-sweat off. Instead, Lecter returned both hands to a neutral clasped position stood serenely, a column of elegance and excellent posture, and regarded the three men as though waiting for something. 

Chilton could barely contain his excitement. “Doctor Hannibal Lecter, actually.”

“Doctor of what?” Chilton’s companion wondered, but the conversation moved away before it registered. 

Chilton made the rapid introductions in a whirl of pinwheeling arm motions, chunky Yurman rings catching the light of the coming sunset. “Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham. Will Graham is a recent transplant from New York. He’s signed with my agency, and he’s got the most intriguing role coming up, playing a kind of steampunk Jack the Ripper role across _three_ films - exciting, trippy shit. I’ve made him promise to send me the blu-rays. And the other important Jack of the hour here: Jack Crawford, MGM. Will, Jack helped broker your Ripper contract. Put him in your phone, we’ll be seeing him a lot until the press tour after the last release four years from now. 

“And Will.” Chilton suddenly came to a dead halt and tilted his head. “Will, who wears glasses to a gala?”

Will froze momentarily, searching for an answer that toed the line between reproachful and humorous, something that could be mistaken for good-natured party talk. “Uh,” he managed lamely.

At his side, Cravat Guy Hannibal Lecter stirred. “Please,” he said softly, as though to a spooked horse. It was accompanied by the slightest raised and open-palmed gesture, the fingers of one hand sweeping a fraction of an inch out. 

Despite himself, Will instinctively reacted by pulling the frames from his face. The corners of Lecter’s pillowy mouth twitched upwards almost imperceptibly. Lecter reached out and gently took them from Will’s hesitant hands, and with great care, as if to avoid brushing skin as he moved. 

All the air was sucked out of Will’s lungs. He couldn’t tell if he was anxious or frightened or something else entirely.

Crawford’s face went from stiffly courteous to bizarrely intent. But the look on Chilton’s face - eyes bright, lips pursed in a barely restrained smile - oh, it was one of unmistakable delight and wonder. “Dr. Lecter is from our neck of the woods actually. He has a pad up in Beverly Hills, throws the best parties there. You’ll see everyone who’s everyone, and he’s great friends with them all - that’s why _Vanity Fair_ taps him to write so many of their celebrity profiles. In fact, he’s here on assignment.”

Suspicion dawned. Will raised his curly head and allowed himself a moment of fleeing eye contact at Lecter’s face and immediately berated himself for not being repelled. There he found a tanned and neutral countenance schooled to be inoffensive and unnoteworthy, sharp cheekbones, brown eyes that were not exactly warm but invited one’s gaze nonetheless. 

“Will,” said Lecter deliberately, “not fond of eye contact are you?”

Will felt cornered. “Why?”

“Your prescription is quite weak.” Lecter turned Will’s glasses over in his hands - gently, as if extraordinarily fragile. “It is unlikely you need these unless to examine finely detailed print up close.”

Will risked a glance over at Chilton, who looked positively scandalized as though everything he had thought about Will until now had been a lie. _He’ll get over it_ , Will thought. The truth then.

“Eyes are distracting. You see too much. You don’t see enough. You’ll excuse me if I don’t feel the need to bow to social convention just to make empty gestures.” Will made as though to snatch his glasses back but Lecter produced a fine cloth from inside his jacket and made a show of cleaning the spotty lenses. 

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind,” Lecter continued, undeterred. “And the banality and vulgarity of the scenes around you grate like concrete on bare skin. They derange the silence you would rather have. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.” 

Then just like that, the suspicion crystallized and soured.

“Whose profile are you working on?” Will demanded. He rounded on Chilton and Crawford when Lecter, perfectly blank, did not immediately respond. “ _Whose profile is he working on?_ ”

“I’m sorry, Will, observing is what I do. My work is-”

Crawford spoke over Lecter then, talking like a tank. “Will - I’m going to call you Will - seems you’ve figured it out. I’ve worked this through with Frederick. It’s got to be Hannibal, and he’s been gracious enough to indulge us - he didn’t have to.” 

Cue a modest smile from Lecter. (Will all but snorted.) 

“Hear me out. He owns a few restaurants in L.A.; they’ll be great places to be seen for the first few weeks. He’s got a receptive network - in contact with all the right people to make this convincing. We’ll roll you out to certain Hollywood players at strategic times. Remember, we’re not just trying to make you liked, we’re trying to make you popular on a tight timeline. 

“Bonus: you have a foot-in-mouth reputation and he’s practically damage control in human form.” Lecter’s eyes were bright at this. “He’ll keep you right. You need it.”

Like hell Will did. He heard the last three words from a distance, having turned his back on all three men at the hors d’oeuvres table. He needed a new agent. Actually, he could do better: he needed a new occupation, new apartment, new papers, and a new face so no Hollywood super-lawyer could hunt him down and sue him for breach of contract once he disappeared to, oh, Argentina maybe. Once again he found himself dodging the crowds, weaving between penguin tux and penguin tux and coming to a breathless pause only when layers of hedges and a monolithic fountain stood between him and the pulsating mass. 

His phone dinged.

There was a banner preview on the lock screen for a message from Chilton. **Hope u don’t mind a ~boyfriend~,** it said, **it wud give ur image some warmth / kick and** \- it cut off. Swipe to view. Will groaned not-so-inwardly and considered chucking his phone into the fountain. In the end he pocketed the device, remembering Lecter’s stillness and his almost-touch, and remembering that Lecter still had his glasses. 

He had to be rational. What if he really turned it all down? Will would be one ordinary man defying a loaded and influential corporation with access to excellent legal counsel. They would eviscerate him in court and he would never work in this ecosystem again, never get to seek solace from the buzzing in his head by pretending to be other people - for actual pay. Plus there was some part of him that balked at the idea of giving up, of admitting he couldn’t do this - it felt like a kind of cowardice, and that was unthinkable. Better to suffer through and come out the other end as the long-suffering victor. 

Eventually he would accept - he knew he had to; the odds were against him. And anyway, no reason he couldn’t be civil with Lecter, grin, and bear it. He seemed tolerable enough, even painfully polite. But for now every bone in Will’s body was screaming for solitary decompression time. He would make Chilton bite his nails for the next 48 hours. 

\- - -

_From Instagram: 1x1 ratio photo of a late-40s man in profile view with hair swept back, long sideburns, and clad in a well-tailored tux. To his right, away from the camera, is a younger man with curls and freshly shaved scruff, face turned to regard him like a deer in headlights._

_Caption: going through Cannes photos of random guests and being like WHO ARE THESE LIFE RUINERS_

_Tagged: #screaming #ineedjesus #congratsonyourfaces #iwanttogotothere_

\- - -

_From Tumblr: vertical photo the same scruffy man staring uncomfortably into space, looking like he doesn’t know how to hold his shoulders and arms_

_Tagged: #ILOVEMYSON #LOOKHOWSMOL #IWANTTOPROTECTIT #hollywood #actors #will graham_

\- - -

_TMZ, May 16 2013. Will Graham is now a first-time Cannes Film Festival guest! Kicking off the first in a series of pre-Ripper promotional appearances, the 33 year-old actor hit up a few premieres plus the exclusive amfAR gala at the Cap-Eden-Roc. While making the rounds, Will had a brief but intimate chat with Los Angeles pillar of society and patron of the arts Hannibal Lecter. Hit the link below for photos of the two cozying up near the hors d’oeuvres._

\- - -

3 A.M. text, F. Chilton to W. Graham

 **> > WELL DONE**  
**> > SEE: TMZ**  
**> > anyway this is happening rite**

Read receipt: 4:12 A.M. No reply.

\- - -

Piled gracelessly into an airport lounge armchair at seven in the morning, Will wrestled his nearly-dead tablet from the depths of a wrinkled duffel bag and video-called his old roommate. He had slept a solid seventeen minutes the night before and currently wasn’t even sure if his head were made of foam or not. 

Stranger things had happened lately.

The call picked up on the fourth ring. Beverly was very beautiful in a breezy kind of way. Relaxed, casual. She sat away from her laptop, cross-legged in ripped jeans and oversized T-shirt, recently returned from a bar gig somewhere in the Village. She had a beer in hand, and her tumbling waves were more generous than Will remembered, having grown to impressive mermaid lengths in his five-month absence. Distantly he could hear the soft fond noises of dogs at play, even at this late hour. Beverly was ruining their night time routine, he thought - but smiled.

“Hey you,” she said by way of greeting, and when the pixelated screen froze briefly on her smile, Will was reminded of a Skype moment two years ago when a few quietly entertained romantic scenarios suddenly bubbled to the surface of his mind the way an old memory might be triggered by an familiar scent. 

He’d called her in the middle of a string of night terrors, and she had been so present and warmly jocular. But the idea died on his lips before it was voiced, because he knew better than to reach out like that out of sheer alienated desperation. And then Beverly had spent the next year in and out of a bad relationship that ended in a broken engagement (“I can’t believe she still has my dead bug collection and won’t give it back - that’s literally the worst part”) and one cathartic new baroque pop album. 

Will jerked his head in one sudden movement, as if to shake the memory away. 

In the present, Beverly set her mug down and was rewarded with a terrier mix in her lap. “Got your text. What’s Chilly’s big idea?”

He braced himself. “You may hear...or read...something,” he finished uncomfortably, after running through his mind’s thesaurus and finding nothing less awkward than that. “Something soon. I uh, might be seeing someone. And they might make me, you know, more likeable.”

“Tall order, Graham. What’s her name?”

“His.”

If Beverly had been sipping her beer right then, she would’ve choked on it. Instead, a cheeky grin broke out across her face, and Will felt his own grow heated at the idea of anyone - even Beverly - contemplating his romantic situation. He dragged his hand through his hair and then down his face with renewed squirmy fervor.

“How didn’t I know -” Beverly began, at the same time Will blurted out, “It’s not real. It’s just management - their PR scheme.”

There was a stunned silence before Beverly’s face fell. Her forehead creased and she said cautiously, “That’s kind of dodgy, Will. They can’t make you their - they can’t puppet you. This is your personal life. Promise you won’t let them...” she struggled for a word, “ _Hollywood_ you.”

Over the PA, Will’s flight boarding was announced. He made listless reassurances towards Beverly and ended the call. He would need to nap through the flight. It would be better than spending every moment awake, electrifyingly anxious, imagining all the ways Chilton’s arrangement could prove to be invasive and mortifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-framed moments from S01E01 "Aperitif":  
> \- glasses scene - "not fond of eye contact"; "whose profile are you working on"


	3. I can hear them whisper as we pass by

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filming, a new dog, and an ambush. And Hannibal's organic coffee (is that a pun?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own proofreader :/  
> Portions of this chapter are heavily sampled from the script of "Aperitif" because pulling in the source material is fun

_CLOSE ON - JACK THE RIPPER_

_A face obscured by darkness, its hollows sunken in shadow. The only AMBIENT SOUND is that of muffled rushing liquid - blood? A heartbeat? CAMERA PULLS BACK to reveal:_

_INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT_

_Fresh splashes of scarlet across the walls of a tiny, grimy Victorian living space. Torn drapery, upended chairs, a smashed vase and upset tea tray. A disemboweled man and a pile of blood-soaked petticoats and ashen limbs in the corner signal us that this tableau before us is the aftermath of something terrible._

_JACK THE RIPPER stands in the center of the room, silhouetted against the lamplight streaming in from the still-open door. The street is dead-silent. He exhales almost serenely and closes his eyes._

_A PENDULUM swings across the scene at the pace of a steady, calm heartbeat - we are rewinding to moments before the murder. With each swing, something cleans up: the drapes stitch together, chairs flip upright, the vase is reassembled, blood lifts from the floors and walls. JACK backs up to the door and shuts it in front of him._

_EXT. ALLEYWAY - NIGHT - CONTINUOUS_

_ON JACK THE RIPPER - JACK’S POV_

_Eyes snap open. Immediately he is on the move - flashes of streetlamp light pass over his features every few moments, illuminating flat eyes and a surprisingly normal mien under the brim of a hat._

_He reaches a chipping, dirty door and kicks it in. AMBIENT SOUND returns to normal. A man runs down the stairs to stop the intruder. Jack produces a small curved blade and uses the man’s own momentum to slice open his throat, spins, and drives a second, straight blade into his abdomen and drags it upwards. Blood streaks a nearby wall. QUICK CUT SLOW-MO._

_A noise off-camera._

_Return to NORMAL TIME. Jack’s eyes snap to the corner, almost a fourth wall break. He face is splattered with blood, eyes no longer flat. His lips curl upward into the smallest possible smile._

__

_TITLE SEQUENCE FOLLOWS FOR:_

_RIPPER_

\- - -

Filming for the first _Ripper_ installment began on a massive soundstage in Culver City and got off to a less than auspicious start. Will, who on past projects was a malleable performer, adapted easily to different management styles, and even unconsciously mirrored his director’s speech patterns, inexplicably fell flat this time on set.

Short lines were an interminable trial, and he could feel his expressions faltering even before the skepticism showed on the utterly unmoved face of camera operator #3. Scenes that should’ve been simple required retake after retake. 

It was, Will guessed, because stepping into the killer’s shoes felt too much like stepping into the studio to free a twisted ribcage from a block of stone. Even the Ripper’s micro-smile - which the director, Matthew Brown, insisted upon - unsettled Will in its execution. It was an ugly concept. Suppose someone saw too much in it. Suppose Will got too used to it. All those years backing away from conversing with the monstrous, and now he’d gone and taken a job like this one. Moronic. How could he have thought there was enough distance between himself and his tendencies to do this now? 

During his infrequent downtime, Will would wrap his costume greatcoat around himself and slump into a canvas folding chair, sip black coffee from a thermos, and try to ignore the many pairs of wondering eyes upon him while he pretended to study his script. _Isn’t he supposed to be good?_ he could practically hear them think. And the more he felt their scrutiny, the worse he performed. He hated being watched this closely. His confidence was peeling away from his body like paint off a decrepit shed.

The presence of studio exec Jack Crawford, frowning like thunder (and dressed like it too, in black-on-black and a severe suit), did not help one iota. During a tense lunch break catered by craft service, he cornered Will. 

“I was told you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths,” Crawford ventured with mock gentleness that made Will bristle. 

Wordlessly Will dumped a croissant with unnecessary violence onto his paper plate. When there was no response, Crawford continued, following suit at the buffet lineup. Crawford was a bulldozer of a man, used to his way, forceful and stocky and undeterred by the wall that was Will Graham.

“And I was told that you could look at a pair of dead eyes in a photo and bring that intensity to the screen. That you were that sort of method actor. It’s why we took you on.”

“I can empathize with anybody. Imagination. Doesn’t have anything to do with personality disorders. Sir,” Will added as an afterthought. 

It came out brusquer and more defensive than intended, and Crawford paused. A look of affront was quickly chased away by the same practiced gentleness as before. Will was being handled, he realized bitterly. 

“Didn’t mean any offense.” Potato salad and a hunk of gravy-doused meat joined Crawford’s croissant. Will’s plate remained otherwise empty. “I want you to let us _really_ borrow that imagination. I’ve seen your other work. I’d like you to get closer to this - really inhabit it.”

Then Crawford was whisked away by aides who wanted to connect him with Nolan on the phone (whoever that was), and good job too, because Crawford’s patterns were coming out and Will could feel them like insects crawling under his skin - every sentence beginning with _I, I, I,_ every request simply a command. It made disproportionate irritation rise up inside in a way that was familiar but terrifying - he could rarely dam it before he said something rude.

While the director’s dailies were being compiled for the next morning’s review, Will threw his scripts and notebooks into a ratty canvas messenger bag, preparing to fly off set at the first closing signal. When it came, he tore across the soundstage at a brisk walk, passing between racks of costumes wheeled by wardrobe assistants, camera operators dismantling tracks and rigging, and the odd costar here and there who offered polite nods but did not stop to talk.

Tonight was supposed to be his first arranged meeting with Hannibal Lecter: after-work drinks at a place where the waiters had business cards. But these puppeteers with their games and their demands could wait.

Before sliding into his old Volvo for the drive home, Will tapped out a quick message to Hannibal Lecter, not caring how rude it would sound.

** >> can’t make it tonight. tell chilton**

No read receipt. But the reply, gracious and proper and unassuming, was immediate. 

** >> Of course. Good night, Will. **

He blinked at it, unable to shake the sudden feeling that he had let himself down somehow.

Or maybe it was merely residual guilt from an underwhelming day of filming: guilt that was reasserting and redirecting itself every which way it could. Impossible to tell sometimes, with Will’s hypersensitivity to whatever surrounded him, where any lingering unease came from.

He needed a change of surroundings, then. He would go for a drive, maybe take the long way home instead of the freeway. And he needed to be calm. Lecter - he was someone who seemed preternaturally and enviably calm. The kind of person who’d always have his shit together, maybe even made his own almond milk or cultivated an herb garden or something like that. Back in Cannes: that slicked-back hair, careful fingers, measured speech. Will had a lot to learn from that level of control.

In the driver’s seat, he sat up straighter, schooled his features into neutrality, took a deep breath, and peeled out of the parking lot. By the time he passed beneath the studio grounds’ archway, he felt better.

His mood further lifted on the drive home, as he passed beneath streetlights and skinny palms on roads that at this hour on a weeknight were no longer choked with the usual LA traffic. Swells of overhead streetlight came and went with hypnotizing regularity, and the dull roar of road noise outside was vaguely soothing. 

Heartened, Will elected to take a winding forty-minute route into the hills instead of going straight home, and pulled over near Runyon Canyon Park to sit on the hood of his car and look down into the valley below.

The lights of the city winked at him. It had been a damp day, and the air smelled of dirt and plant exhalations. Will kicked his feet up and was about to lie back and face the stars when a scratching noise and hint of movement at the periphery of his vision gave him pause.

It was a dog - either brown or deep golden, Will could tell only that much in the darkness. And shaggy and muddy, in need of a bath. There was no collar. It seemed skittish and exhausted, and there were no signs of other human life around. Lost, then.

“Hello,” Will said gently, sliding off his car, and the dog took off in the other direction at a trot. If he stopped moving, so did the dog, who would glance back wonderingly.

Now exhausted himself, Will dragged a hand down his face, sighing. He made a decision.

Back into the car he went, and rifled through his things to find a bagged up hot dog from craft services lunch that day. He tossed the bun aside and ripped the hot dog into manageable chunks, then offered them to the muddy stray in the form of a trail leading towards the open car door.

The dog climbed in. They went home.

Into the witching hours of what would turn out to be a sleepless night, Will occupied himself with the care of his new stray: shaving off matted clumps of fur (he was indeed a shade of deep gold), lathering him up in a tub in the front yard, and toweling him down with more attention to detail than was strictly needed. It was like a ritual. He had done this for too many dogs to count, on too many solitary, silent nights to count. 

Finally, he settled the new dog into a crate he had brought from New York. It had once been occupied by one of the dogs now living with Beverly. Originally he had shipped it across the country with the rest of his things without a plan for it. This was a satisfying development.

Now he could move about the condo and shut off lights with a sense of fledgling peace and closure. He had done something real. He climbed into bed across the room from the crate where his new friend had already flattened himself quietly and obligingly against the cushioned lining.

“Guess it’s just you and me now,” he said, then hesitated and added, “Winston.”

\- - -

In the space where night bled into morning, Will shifted in and out of hot, troubled sleep to find the bedroom shot through with glowing blue slash marks: the eerie outside half-light slicing between the slats of partly-open blinds.

The usual nightmares came in quick succession between the fits of wakefulness. On the opposite wall: the luminous shape of a dark haired young woman in a white cotton shift, standing with a drooping head - asleep? He reached out to wake her with a touch on the forearm. The shadows surrounding her danced and lengthened, becoming a sprawling set of thorns and spikes that burst forth from her chest, releasing streams of new blood to run wine-dark down her nightgown. Like brambly branches the spikes grew and grew caged her in - and drew her back into the dark.

Will sat up abruptly in full morning sunlight, t-shirt translucent with sweat. He tugged it off, ran a quick cold shower. 

Idly, while inhaling a protein bar with coffee at his kitchen counter, he scrolled through the weather, then the local news. A page-top banner declared that a recent abduction alert had been canceled. The girl was dead, discovered mounted on branches in the hills beyond the city.

\- - -

It had been a successful day of shooting, the first so far, and some of the cast and crew were going out for drinks afterwards. In the general sense of triumph and camaraderie, someone took it too far and decided, why wait? The dressing rooms behind sound stage nine were now housing some kind of Hollywood take on an office rager.

Noise - too much noise - Will had to get away from it.

Having received four claps on the back too many (four), he escaped to the men’s room. He gazed for a long time at his own reflection, searching for a hint of the Ripper in any part of the in the mirror. He was safely back in his own plaid and chinos but still bore his character’s side-swept, controlled hairstyle. With both hands he mussed it furiously, returning it to normal. Then splashed water on his face. Breathed deep.

He was gathering his bag to leave when Jack Crawford entered, hands jammed in the pockets of his suit pants, clearly having been looking for Will for some time already, by the look on his face.

“What are you doing in here?” 

Will couldn’t resist. “I enjoy the smell of urinal cake.”

“Me too,” Crawford deadpanned, not even missing a beat. “Let’s talk - USE THE LADIES’ ROOM.”

Will whirled to see what Jack was bellowing at: a hoodie-clad, now sheepish-looking boom operator who turned on his heel and left as directed. Distraction removed, Jack moved in. Will was briefly, inexplicably reminded of a shark documentary he’d seen on a nature channel the other night.

Crawford began gently, probably because he wanted something. “Do you respect my judgment, Will?”

“Sure.”

“Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re watching or reading to get into the right mindspace - I don’t need to know what it is. But keep going. Good shoot today.” 

A beat. Will was surprised, unaccustomed to others making leaps in reading him - at least correctly. He stepped back until the small of his back bumped against a sink, then disguised the nervous tic as a casual lean.

Crawford continued, “I’m keeping you signed on. We have a better chance at the box office if you’re in the saddle.”

“I’m in the saddle,” Will pointed out. “Kind of how a contract works.”

Crawford’s raised eyebrow suggested Will tread lightly and find something else to say - something to water that down.

“I’m in the saddle,” he tried again. “Just confused which direction I’m pointing. I’ve never played this kind of psychopath. Never seen anyone play anything quite like him. I don’t even know if he’s a psychopath - the material out there is...” he threw his hands up, “complex. He’s not shallow.” 

“You could tell something about him or you wouldn’t have performed like that today. What’s his motive? How does he tick?”

An uncomfortable silence, followed with Will fidgeting slightly, suddenly even less able to meet Crawford’s eyes. His jaw tensed and untensed with the effort of finding and holding back the right words.

“Spit it out,” said Crawford, and at the same time, Will blurted out, “Field kabuki.”

“Excuse me?”

Will knew. He had known since afternoon that day on set, coming out of a sequence feeling dizzy and dreamy, remembering his nightmares and the daily news and the girl in the hills, both his arms drenched in special effects blood up to the elbows. He couldn’t have this conversation with Jack Crawford right now. 

After a mumbled excuse about having to walk Winston, he was out the door, leaving Crawford alone under buzzing fluorescent light.

\- - -

The girl on the hills returned, each time in more detail than the last. Sometimes she was a composite: both an image hashed together from news descriptions and the memory of the pale mounted body in Will’s old studio.

Sometimes there was only the plink-plink-plink of dripping blood in total darkness. Sometimes, instead, there were ribbons of blood so dark they were nearly black, coursing down a white wall that undulated like a cotton nightdress. And some nights he lay thinking he was awake - but unsure - and hearing the sound of what might have been someone else’s rasping breathing if he strained. 

He woke and slept and woke and slept, wrapped in a heavy dull horror like velvet.

\- - -

Sunday announced itself with a set of sharp, unexpected knocks on the door.

Bolting upright in bed, Will fumbled for his phone on the nightstand for a clue. Maybe someone had been calling and, impatient, finally escalated things to a house visit. But there were no messages from anyone but Chilton, who rarely ventured out of the immediate Hollywood environs anyway. He wouldn’t put it past Jack Crawford to make an unannounced house visit, but then Crawford seemed too busy and important for that.

He freed his feet from tangled sheets, pulled on fresh boxers and a t-shirt to compensate for not having any shower time, and went to open the door with Winston at his heels. 

Hannibal fucking Lecter was on his doorstep. With what looked like a food delivery. 

“Good morning, Will. May I come in?”

Will blinked rudely, frozen to the spot, thinking that maybe being shocked into sudden consciousness had caused some kind of neural damage. When the amazement passed, he almost wanted to laugh, partly from embarrassment and partly from exasperation that Chilton’s plan had come to this. 

“Chilton with you?” he asked, surprising himself with how earnestly he really did wish his agent were present. He had no idea how to interact with these jet set Hollywood types and could use a social buffer. A buffer like Chilton, who didn’t make conversation so much as force it along like toothpaste out of an old crumpled tube. 

Will’s visitor inclined his head slightly. “Working during his weekend, interviewing candidates to be his personal assistant. The adventure will be yours and mine today. May I come in?”

Lecter was dressed like a literature professor, in neatly cut everything and too many layers for this time of year. He balanced two cups and a thermos in one hand, and held an insulated lunch bag in the other. Behind him, half-visible in the driveway past some landscaping, was a gleaming black Bentley, but not one of the more commonplace models Will often got stuck behind on the boulevard. Oh hell, he was not equipped for this interaction. 

“Should’ve knocked on George Clooney’s door instead,” Will said, meeting Lecter’s collar instead of his eyes. But he jerked his head back towards the kitchen by way of invitation nonetheless. Both visitor and Winston crossed the threshold.

Even Lecter’s Tupperware was gorgeously appointed. Will stood back nursing an instant coffee while Lecter busied himself setting out a breakfast for two and pouring the contents of his sleek, expensive-looking thermos into his own cups.

Suddenly too self-aware, Will set his instant coffee into the sink, then internally berated himself. If he didn’t care what Chilton and Crawford thought of him, he shouldn’t mind Lecter’s judgment.

Only Lecter didn’t seem to judge. His expression as he moved around the breakfast nook was perfectly neutral, his gaze never falling on any spot for too long. Somehow he had divined Will’s optimal eye contact comfort level exactly, and adjusted accordingly. 

“I’m very careful,” he explained when they finally sat down, “about what I put into my body. Which means I end up preparing most meals myself. Scrambled eggs, kale, sausage, and a side of avocado on seven-grain toast. Organic drip coffee if you’ll have some.”

It was beautifully done. All still hot, and the colors bright and real the way Will’s mostly pre-packaged, faded supermarket meals never were. He stabbed a little bit of scramble with his fork and took a bite.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“And very L.A.”

The corner of Lecter’s mouth became an apostrophe. “My adaptation of menu items from The Butcher’s Daughter. Theirs is a meat-free concept but I’m afraid...” he leaned in slightly, amused, “nothing I make is vegetarian.”

“Next you’ll tell me you make your own jam.”

“With goji berries.”

Will let out a short burst of laughter that came out more like a derisive snort. 

Without reacting, Lecter continued, “I would apologize for my ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

This man was basically alphabet soup. “Just keep it professional.” Eyes fixed on his food rather than on Lecter. 

“Or we could socialize, like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

Will paused, avocado toast in hand, en route to his mouth. He looked at Lecter: at the lines of his brown suit, the crisp button-down so white it gave off its own light, at the unblinking and expectant yet impersonal gaze. Some quality in those blank eyes suddenly rubbed Will the wrong way - made him feel like a capital-P Project, like something under a microscope about to be prodded seven different ways by someone bigger than he was. He thought of Chilton behind his mid-century desk - thought of his agent giddly sending “anonymous” tips to TMZ about encounters like this one. 

He dropped his eyes back to his plate. “I don’t find you that interesting.” He hoped it sounded the way it felt: like a decision.

“You will,” said Lecter.

\- - -

Lecter did the washing up himself as soon as the meal was over, rather than place dirtied Tupperware back in their lunch bag or leave Will with used plates at the table. He slung his jacket over the back of a chair, rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, and worked at the sink while Will hung about, still in pajamas, uncertain of what to do or say next. The other man filled in the gaps of silence instead.

“Jack Crawford tells me you have a knack for the monsters.”

“It’s mostly typecasting. And reading the news. There was a girl in a field.” Will furrowed his brow, not knowing why he had voluntered that when he had fled from Crawford after their men’s room run-in.

“The devil is in the details. Was she helpful last week when you were on set, the girl in the field? Were you the Ripper that day?”

Will looked up, surprised at the connection.

“Frederick,” Lecter said simply, responding to the unspoken question. He sluiced the plates, and soapy water ran over unexpectedly muscle-corded forearms.

If Crawford and Lecter were both going to be buzzing around these days, guessing at Will’s mental state and professional methods and getting tip-offs from his agent, he was going to become a fugitive to Canada before Chilton’s plan could really get off the ground. 

He grabbed a dishtowel and began furiously drying containers and plates as Lecter set them aside, glad to have something else to fixate on while he danced uncomfortably around specificity. A mental image drawn from the news returned. Lungs torn out while the victim was alive. The pierced torso, the mounted body and its ghostly pallor. 

“I...caught onto a few ugly variables.” Will could hear the grimace in his own voice. “Before, I...couldn’t get into his headspace.” 

“Could not, or would not?”

The distinction hadn’t occurred to Will.

“I don’t know. Both.” 

“And now the mathematics of human behavior are aiding your reconstruction of the Ripper’s fantasies.”

_This guy._

“It’s field kabuki.” Will thought again of his restroom conversation with Jack. “It’s not love or attraction, he’s not honoring the victim, and it’s not exactly hate. His victims were pigs.”

Will sealed Lecter’s washed, dried belongings back in their cushy insulated bag, set it on the counter, and paused warily when Lecter did not immediately retrieve them and announce he would be on his way. Instead, the surprise guest upped the surprise ante ( _this guy, seriously_ ) and turned to a veritable landfill of unopened moving boxes in the otherwise bare, furnishing-free living room. 

“Shall we, then?” he said in a tone so courtly and full of purpose that Will could find no way to shut down where this was going.

“Start with that stack, then. I’ll get these. And then I’m going to kill Chilton if he put you up to this.”

\- - -

__**The Atlantic, 3 June 2013. "METHOD ACTING, MODERN EVIL, & THE MAINSTREAM VILLAIN"**  
Once a controversial technique connected with the mystique of indie arthouse dramas and character actors, the practice of directing actors to live “‘in character’ off stage” has bled into the realm of the big-budget commercial blockbuster. Mirroring demand for higher-def images and more realistic special effects, studios are seeing increased audience interest in verisimilitude when it comes to the performance of modern evil. In a recent appearance, MGM executive Jack Crawford defended his unorthodox choice of method actor Will Graham for the equally unorthodox upcoming Ripper trilogy by citing the performer’s own psychology. “[Graham],” remarked Crawford to a press panel, “deals with huge amounts of fear. It comes with imagination.” When asked if producers would encourage mental stress in order to elicit a desirably intense portrayal of the 19th century serial killer, Crawford replied, “I wouldn’t put [Graham] in this position if I couldn’t cover him.” Troublingly, there was an amendment: “If I couldn’t cover him eighty percent.” Hollywood may push the envelope too far when [Read more...]

\- - -

_TattleTime, 5 June 2013. It began with crazy eye contact and a handshake in Cannes just a couple weeks ago. Now rising star **Will Graham** and his - ahem - friend, suave Beverly Hills bachelor and practicing psychiatrist-to-the-stars **Hannibal Lecter** , are continuing their fresh acquaintance on this side of the Atlantic as only Angelenos can do: with sushi lunches, Veuve Clicquot brunches, green smoothies from Urth Caffe, and at least two Rodeo Drive outings (Hannibal treated himself to Ferragamo loafers). All of this is a surprise from Will, who sources say used to live like a reclusive ascetic [Read more...]_

\- - -

_Daily Mail, 8 June 2013. **Will Graham IN TROUBLE?** The American actor, star of 2012’s award-winning indie sleeper hit The Savage Hours, has been in the continuous company of Lithuanian-born psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter in the weeks after a public breakdown at a Los Angeles party. Asked for comment on whether the actor is currently undergoing psychiatric treatment for an undisclosed condition, Graham’s management remarked the two are simply having conversations and enjoying the beginnings of a close and supportive friendship._

\- - -

_Tumblr post by [username redacted] of a photo of Will and Hannibal picking out cheese together at Joan’s on Third. Will looks haunted and tired in gray loungewear. Hannibal is dressed as if summering on the Riviera. 10 June 2013. Caption reads: **GET THAT EUROPEAN DICC BOI**_

\- - -

Get that Eur - no. No, Will thought numbly, he was not getting that dicc. He was not getting any dicc, thank you very much. He was (barely) grinning and (barely) bearing nearly every-other-day outings with Hannibal Lecter - always impeccably turned out in luxurious basics with a flamboyant touch here or there, and always maintaining an arm’s length distance, in a way. Polite to a fault, professional, never a hair (or a word) out of place.

It became a choreographed routine. At the beginning of each week, Will would receive an iCalendar update from his agency detailing when and where he was to meet Lecter. They would arrive separately, grab something simple (never a candlelit dinner, not yet), and talk about absolute shit. 

Dimly Will wondered if the paparazzi outside the glass walls and greenery of the Commissary at The Line would notice if he just started mouthing emptily like a goldfish. 

They had spoken thousands of words to each other at this point, probably - largely over very public lunches at Katsuya or drinks at the Perch, always timed to ensure maximum web coverage. And yet Will felt he still knew Lecter only vaguely, and what he did know was not that interesting. He was a doctor of some sort, listened to a lot of opera, almost consistently ordered the most expensive item on any given menu as if by habit, and tolerated Will’s defensive, cranky rambling with puzzling grace. But much to Chilton’s commercial disappointment, they were skimming the surface with each other, neither man willing to share much of himself until the other did. 

The media, however, felt they knew a lot. 

In the beginning, after a couple fingers of whiskey and halfheartedly unpacking the last boxes left untouched after Lecter’s breakfast ambush, Will hadn’t been able to resist the impulse to Google himself. Perception was a weird thing, he thought, excusing himself for it. No shame in having a detached curiosity - almost like that of a sociologist - about the public’s reaction to this exercise in PR manipulation.

Except his curiosity was not detached at all. There was something desperate and manic to it, the strangled hysterical knee-jerk reaction of a dying man searching for homeopathic remedies online. Knowing he was fucked but hoping to find evidence otherwise. 

He did not find evidence otherwise. With dull horror he watched online press outlets latch onto Chilton’s slyly dropped hints with barely contained glee. A recluse’s life seemingly becoming unveiled, Getty image by Getty image.

“I’m almost thankful,” Chilton mused, about a month into the scheme, “that you were so unlikeable and reclusive beforehand. People are discovering that...still waters run deep? Or is that not the right proverb? Anyway, people love being proven wrong about actors. It’s Christmas for me. You’ve been invited to three store openings next week.”

“Reject them all.”

“Too late.”

The far wall of Chilton’s Hollywood office then became a sick, comical echo of a criminal investigation evidence board. Over the early weeks of summer, polaroids and paparazzi snaps were added, then cheesier magazine clippings from _OK!_ and _Us Weekly_ , blog printouts, and finally, late in June, a triumphant blurb from _Vanity Fair_ in all its glossy glory. 

Will hadn’t been prepared for that one. 

It was actually a page-long feature on Hannibal, who despite having balanced his impersonal conversation on a knife’s edge between gracious and terse for weeks, had managed to give an interview ostensibly about a LACMA installation he was sponsoring and sneak in a bit that floored Will:

**VF: You’re good friends with the actor Will Graham.**  
HL: I am certainly endeavoring to be.  
**VF: That’s a fascinating character there - how has that unfolded, and how do you understand this figure who has been so infamously inaccessible?**  
HL: I can’t - we can’t. There are well-documented eccentricities to which I think you refer, and they are tempting to accept because of their seeming visibility. But I cannot and do not define Will only by his maddest edges.  
**VF: In effect, “more than meets the eye”?**

Will stopped reading there, ready to crawl out of his own skin in mortification. 

“You know he literally helped me unpack?” he asked Chilton. “After helping me unpack...feelings. Ideas. This is...this is already way out there. There can’t possibly be more.”

Chilton held up a finger as if to say “just wait for it,” and made a brief internal call from his desk phone that sounded like “send up the nervous guy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-framed moments from S01E01 "Aperitif":  
> \- slow-mo violence with door kick  
> \- empathy and imagination  
> \- finding Winston  
> \- urinal scene  
> \- breakfast scene; "just keep it professional"  
> \- "ugly variables"; "field kabuki"; victims as pigs  
> \- Will "deals with huge amounts of fear"  
> \- Jack wouldn't put Will out there unless he could "cover him"


	4. They got the cages, they got the boxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franklyn's new job. Some emergency surgery. Will crashes a party and peaces out immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episodes sampled: S01E02 "Amuse Bouche," S01E07 "Sorbet."

Before Chilton’s desk phone settled back into its cradle, the office door burst open and in stormed an excessively eager-looking man with a short beard and too much product in his hair. Will had never seen this man before, which meant he was brand-new at the agency. He had either arrived fully programmed, or he had assimilated with lightning speed. He dressed vaguely like Chilton and Lecter did, in a full-on suit jacket, albeit less jauntily. No cravat here.

The newcomer made his way immediately behind Chilton’s desk, nearly knocking Will off his feet along the way, and waited for instructions in such an obsequious manner that surely even Chilton had to be uncomfortable as hell.

“My calendar, Frank,” said Chilton, and his new hire held out an iPhone, chest puffed. Chilton glanced at the screen and pushed it back with an unconcealed grimace. 

“This is your camera roll, and it’s _entirely_ selfies.”

Flushing, the assistant tucked his personal phone away inside his jacket and produced a second, newer model, which Chilton palmed. 

“It’s Franklyn.”

“Thank you, Frank, that’ll be all.”

Franklyn departed, looking a little deflated. Will met Chilton’s gaze with an eyebrow raised. There was no need for Chilton to have an assistant bring him his iCalendar when it was already synced to the enormous iMac currently forming a douchey backdrop to his seated figure. (Desktop image: Chilton’s own red Ferrari, professionally shot by a local photographer.) Chilton returned Will’s expression wholly unselfconsciously. 

“Haven’t had the budget for an assistant since before video streaming subscriptions took off. Let me enjoy this,” said the agent. 

He tugged up both blazer sleeves, strode around his desk, and approached his parody of an evidence board with a posture of smug purpose. Will saw that he was wearing emerald velvet slippers with horsebit accents rather than actual shoes, and thought briefly of the wizard of Oz - here, too, was a man faking all kinds of magic behind the scenes. 

With deliberate movements, Chilton turned to the side, opened an elaborate vintage trunk-styled bar cart and began unfolding drawers and compartments here and there. The inside of it was mirrored. Why did a bar cart need to be internally mirrored? 

The process of decanting whiskey (neat) into two crystal glasses was so drawn-out that Will began to feel suspicious. When it was offered, Will took his glass warily.

“Spit it out,” he said finally, echoing Jack Crawford in the men’s room weeks ago.

Standing before his evidence board and with his back turned on Will, Chilton spread out both arms like Rose on the Titanic and announced, “We’re approaching the summer of Hannigram.”

Will barely stifled a laugh that turned into a cough as some of his drink went down the wrong pipe and left a stripe of burning pain. 

“Summer of _what_?”

“Hannigram. I’m predicting it’ll be your hashtag - or maybe I don’t have to predict, necessarily...I can plant it somewhere. I’m thinking Instagram.” Chilton whirled around and fixed his tie. “It’s your celebrity portmanteau. It’s made to go viral. It’s your ‘Brangelina.’”

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why is it his first name and my last name? Why not both first names or both last names?”

There was a pause while Chilton considered this. His usual self-satisfied appearance of lightly veiled condescension had deserted his face.

“I...hadn’t finished thinking this through. Your monosyllabic names don’t give anyone a lot to work with, kid.”

This was a new development. Possibly Chilton had been watching old movies lately, because he had started to pattern himself after a classic Hollywood player, or perhaps a film noir detective. Everything was _hey kid, how’s it going kid. Let me pimp you out to an L.A. socialite, kid._ But he had done more annoying things. 

They spent the next half hour bent over weekend itineraries, blind item drafts, appearance bookings, press release outlines, and so many paparazzi-placement diagrams (diagrams!) that Will began to feel woozy well before he drained his third rapid-fire shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. Chilton had even needled Margot Verger into extending three extra invitations to her fall wedding at the Beverly Hills Hotel: one for Chilton, one for Will, and one for Will’s, ahem, date.

Will gestured at Chilton’s exhaustive document pile with his empty glass. 

“When does it all end?” he asked.

“When our web metrics show you’re more positively viewed than corgi butts. Or something like that.”

Will closed his eyes for a long time. “And how does it end?”

“We have some theatrical freedom there. Sad and sudden flame-out? You could be on vacation somewhere and return alone looking all glum. Cue ‘damage-control’ press releases. Then everyone walks free.”

To Will’s alcohol-numbed mind, this didn’t sound too bad. Low-key, even. He set his glass down a little too hard on Chilton’s designer side-table, saw his agent wince, and rocked himself back onto his feet. 

“Just keep it professional,” he said, then frowned, feeling like he had said that before. 

Chilton was all too glad to drive him home and take that red Ferrari for a very public spin down the Boulevard.

\- - -

_Buzzfeed, 13 June 2013. “10 Times We Were All Will Graham.”_  
[Pictured: a series of walking shots that show Will Graham sporting various levels of scruff but always the same level of distant-eyed displeasure, as though he would really rather be anywhere but here. Even in photos with a party or swanky restaurant as a backdrop, Graham’s face is perfectly consistent in its blank misery. One of them, captioned “sad Graham cracker,” becomes a meme.]

\- - -

_Twitter, 17 June 2013. A cookie and cracker company has picked up on the meme and tweets a photo of Will Graham as an advertisement. (#Hannigram #SadGrahamCracker)_

\- - -

At some point in mid June, Will jerked awake at 5:30 AM Pacific to the shrill sound of his Facetime alert going off. It was Beverly, calling from New York. Having had his first nightmare-free night in a few days, he was tempted to decline the call and go back to sleep, but thought better of it, glad to be contacted by someone other than Chilton for a change.

Immediately he regretted answering. 

“W-will,” Beverly gasped out in between body-shaking laughs, “who - who did - who did this?”

Somewhere in all the blurry phone movement courtesy of Beverly’s pinwheeling limbs, Will could make out that she was gesturing at her laptop screen. 

“Please, Bev,” he said, trying not to sound too panicked that maybe something profoundly embarrassing had happened. “It’s early here. Slow down.”

She brought her phone camera closer to the computer and Will found himself face-to-face with some kind of cookie ad featuring his own gloomy countenance. Then she scrolled, and a thousand and a half slightly different iterations of the photo flew by, one after the other. In some, his face had been photoshopped over James Bond walking away from an explosion.

“If your agent did this, he is a fucking genius. You’re a meme, Will. You’ve _made it._ Now please party with Rihanna and get me her autograph.”

“Not even 6 AM, Beverly.”

“Do you think Teddy Grahams would do a product tie-in?” 

Will burrowed back into his covers and grinned into his pillow despite himself. 

“Go walk the dogs - I can hear them barking.”

There was a rustle of movement on the other end, quick successive flashes of Beverly’s smile, the kitchen counter, and a window, then nothing as she disconnected.

\- - -

_A LARYNGOSCOPIC VIEW OF VOCAL CORDS._

__

_We are enveloped by the ambient noise of the circulatory system. Vocal cords open for the intake of air, then sharply close. CAMERA is carried out through throat and mouth to reveal we are --_

_INT. OPERA HOUSE, LONDON - NIGHT_

_CAMERA pulls out of a soprano’s mouth as she belts out the last notes of Verdi’s “Tacea la notte placida” from TROVATORE. CAMERA continues to pull back over the audience, settling on a man dressed all in black. JACK THE RIPPER, folded into polite society._

_Darkness. Then JACK opens his eyes. His enjoyment of the strings and vocals - in his gestures and transported expression - is intercut with --_

_AN EXPOSED THORACIC CAVITY - cracked apart to the sound of cymbals._

_THE SLASHING OF A THROAT - to the pull of bows on cellos. HARD CUT TO:_

_INT. OPERA HOUSE, LONDON - NIGHT_

_THE SOPRANO clutches chest at the base of her throat as if in pain as she holds her final, sustained note..._

\- - -

Dusk was settling upon L.A., the sky turning a flat deep blue as the last of the sun dipped beyond the 405. After a long day on set, Will returned home to darkness and quiet - save for the soft whimpering of Winston from his corner of the living room, eager to be greeted. He left a trail of things from the door to the dog pen - shoes, socks, overstuffed old messenger bag - and bent down to rub the golden dog’s sides and scratch behind his ears. Then he let the dog into the condo’s tiny backyard to do his business.

Will was no longer feeling cloudy on set. Instead there was an alarming clarity, a sharpness of feeling, like everything was a little bolder and brighter and moved a little slower, like objects underwater. Or rather he felt he moved faster - and the world slowed around him by comparison. He was feeling, in other words, like the opening they had shot for the _Ripper_ trilogy weeks ago - he’d seen the test edits on the screen of director Matt Brown’s laptop the night before. Brutal cut after brutal cut, all extended and arranged like a fever dream sequence.

Part of it, he thought, came from dwelling too hard on the images in his dreams. Finding a kind of savage beauty in thorns breaking skin, of thick black rivulets coursing down fabric and limbs to pool on the floor. Method acting, like that article had said. No harm in it. But a brand of it he didn’t especially care to reveal or explain to other people. The last thing he wanted was to be a trending topic on Facebook under “sociopath” - he’d had enough of those rumors in art school, thanks. In _art school._ Where being different was in itself an art form.

“I couldn’t get into his headspace,” Will murmured to himself, rifling through drawers in his tiny bedroom. Outside, Winston barked twice, having encountered a squirrel. He registered it dimly, as though from very far away.

_Could not, or would not?_ Hannibal had replied.

_I don’t know. Both._

Now Will knew that was only half true. 

When had he drawn the sketch he found ages ago, before Cannes? In his sleep? A body fallen upon upturned spikes - it was just like the girl in the Hills. Briefly his actor’s imagination allowed him to wonder, laughably, if he had done that himself in a fit of sleepwalking violence. That would be a plot twist like something out of a movie. 

After Lecter had helped him unpack the living room, they had moved on to other rooms in the condo. Will didn’t remember organizing his clothes by any set of rules whatsoever, but here they all were, hanging up first according to occasion and then by color. It was still largely a sea of incoherent plaids and corduroy and khaki, but he could see the clear delineation where the L.L. Bean ended and his modest set of smarter clothing began.

Will didn’t know how to process this discovery. Hannibal Lecter had rearranged his fucking closet. It was a weirdly intimate and homey gesture. No one had ever done that, not even Beverly, at the height of Will’s messiness as a young artist in New York. 

A thought occurred to him and he bolted to his underwear drawer. These had been left untouched out of some proper sense of courtesy.

He wanted to be inconspicuous tonight. Black on gray. He changed into something nice-ish but nondescript, a blazer over a button down with his least wrinkled pants, and sat in the darkening living room with Winston until he heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. 

Franklyn drove a yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Because of course Franklyn drove a Beetle.

Chilton’s assistant honked sharply to announce his arrival, and disturbed, Winston began to bark. Will spent the better part of a minute calming the dog down, then closed him into a pen with a bed and his dinner. With any luck he would be back almost instantly to let him out before bed. 

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Franklyn called out of the open window. Some kind of pop music was blaring - something tinny with a female vocalist and a repetitive chorus. Will didn’t know how to tell Franklyn no, so he settled for a face that could as easily mean “not bad” as it could “I don’t know.”

He climbed in with some difficulty - the car sat so close to the ground - and fumbled with the seat levers to give himself enough legroom that his chin wouldn’t practically sit on his knees. But Franklyn seemed comfortable. 

They peeled out of the neighborhood. Franklyn made an unexpected turn onto Robertson, and divining what his driver was going to do, Will called out, “Don’t take I-10,” at the same time Franklyn cheerily announced, “I’m gonna take I-10.”

It was too late. They were going to be locked in a stretch of red traffic for the foreseeable future. What followed was one of the single most excruciating pauses of Will’s life, and he had experienced many. He had to be in the 97th percentile of people whose lives were made up of uncomfortable silence.

“Taylor Swift, _Red_ ,” said Franklyn, clearly grasping at straws for conversation material. “But I can change the music if you want.”

Without answering, Will simply pressed the OFF button on the media console.

Franklyn made a noise with his mouth that sounded like the popping of a gum bubble. “You know,” he began, and Will regretted allowing Chilton to arrange him a ride instead of taking a cab. “This is nice. We can bond. I mean, I don’t really know who you are outside the room - you know, Frederick’s office. I volunteered to do this.”

He was one of those drivers who looked away from the road and at their passenger far too often. It irked Will and reminded him of unconvincing driving scenes in TV shows - heated discussions, bad pop music, drivers staring over at the passenger and remaining accident-free. He could never suspend his disbelief that far. Fixing his gaze straight ahead, he resolved to be an extra pair of eyes for Franklyn and prevent the two of them from dying in a fiery car crash on the highways of Los Angeles.

Franklyn spoke a mile a minute with plenty of hand gestures and fumfering in between. Proudly he detailed for Will the full extent of his own involvement in the night’s project. This was his first big assignment as Chilton’s new assistant, and he’d pulled out all the stops, or so he said, booking Will a dinner with Hannibal Lecter at the Faith and Flower, named one of America’s best-designed restaurants by some magazine or other. A few names were dropped - which Will could tell not because he knew who they belonged to, but because Franklyn spoke them with such an air of self-congratulations at his excellent taste. 

Somehow Will found himself drifting, watching streetlights throw shapes and shadows over the dashboard, and thinking that the only person of taste that he’d met so far in L.A. was Hannibal Lecter himself. A touch of glamour. Poised and contained and never seeming to try too hard, like a classic film. He wondered about - what was it Franklyn had said? - the Faith and Flower. Hoped it was to Lecter’s taste, and that he wouldn’t look like a grown man who couldn’t tell Easy Mac from bucatini with ricotta. 

Will came back to the one-sided conversation when he heard Franklyn say Lecter’s name. 

“...And read all about Hannibal,” the assistant was saying, the first part of his sentence unheard. “He likes the same things I do. Cheese, opera. And I don’t like the word ‘foodie,’ but I’m that, too.. I think we’d be good friends. It makes me sad we’re only colleagues, you know?”

“Working for Chilton doesn’t exactly make you colleagues with Dr. Lecter,” Will said, a little too sharply. The annoyance had been building over the drive, which so far was a needless ten minutes longer than it would’ve been, had Franklyn taken the route around traffic. 

Instantly Franklyn deflated the way he had in Chilton’s office.

“But maybe,” Will ventured, by way of guilty apology, “you can...say hi to him when we get there.”

Franklyn literally hummed Verdi for the rest of the drive. It was too bad, really, that Franklyn wasn’t the one stuck in this fake relationship press deal.

\- - -

Faith and Flower, much to Will’s unspoken relief, was cleverly chosen. It was dim and unimposing, not uncomfortably quiet, and just buzzy enough that eavesdropping here would be difficult for diners. An enormous, tufted yellow banquette with plenty of open seats lined one end, but the hostess led him instead to an isolated, small dark table with emerald leather seats. Hannibal Lecter occupied one of them.

On-time, of course, Will thought. Or no - early. Lecter’s glass of water was nearly empty.

“I will have us reseated to a larger table,” Lecter said, rising to his feet, when he saw Franklyn trailing behind. 

“No, Franklyn’s just stopping in for a sec.”

And suddenly Franklyn was leading instead, jumping ahead of Will to shake Lecter’s hand, then bringing in his left to clasp it like he had been waiting his entire life for this moment. Will had the strong feeling that he should avert his eyes but didn’t.

“Dr. Lecter, so nice to see you again.” Franklyn was beaming. 

Will did a double-take. “You know each other already?” he asked, looking between the two men, who could not have been more different despite Franklyn’s painfully thought-out dress.

“There should remain some mystery to my life outside our arrangement,” said Lecter, gracefully living up to his reputation at Will’s agency for being damage control in human form. 

But Franklyn was unstoppable. “I used to be his patient. Well, I was a referral while my regular psychiatrist went on leave for a month.” 

“Pleasant drive? I encountered traffic on my way in.” Another attempt at deflection.

“Loved it, every minute.” 

Will’s expression must have plainly told another story, because he met Lecter’s eyes over Franklyn’s head and found them oddly...twinkly. Like this was a moment of shared annoyance. Will found himself briefly sucked in by the hint of playful camaraderie and kicked himself internally for enjoying any part of Chilton’s scheme. He was here to be puppeted. He was not having fun.

“You know,” Franklyn continued, his tone pitching upwards in a way that suggested he had a lot more to say, and had been planning it for some time. “I wish I could’ve stayed on as a regular. It’s too bad there wasn’t any room for me. It felt like you were rejec-”

\- - -

Will’s mood lifted considerably once Franklyn departed, thanks to some expert social maneuvering on the doctor’s part. He sat across from Lecter at their small table, nursing a creamy mixture of rum and absinthe. Lecter had dressed for the venue, it seemed: his jacket was patterned and nostalgic, and it coordinated him with their vaguely Art Deco surroundings. All around was the comforting susurration of low conversation, no words readily distinguishable. Neither man broke the silence for a while, content to browse menus without speaking.

Finally Will did, perhaps unconsciously attempting to make amends for springing a former patient onto Lecter like that. 

“Place isn’t bad. Franklyn made a good choice.”

“Frederick’s office received a list of my pre-approved locations,” Lecter explained, not lifting his eyes from his menu.

Ah. That made sense. 

They ordered starters to drag the night out per Chilton’s instructions. Kale and pear salad for Will (who winced as he said it, fearing L.A. was bleeding into him after all), and steak tartare with kombu relish for Lecter. 

Some subjects became easier to broach when Will was two cocktails into the meal. “Read your bit in _Vanity Fair_ ,” he ventured. “So you’re working with Jack Crawford on an ‘evil minds’ installation at LACMA.”

Lecter paused, knife and fork held in either hand at a positively aristocratic angle that Will had never seen outside of movies. “Yes. A promotional tie-in with some of the films his studio is debuting over the next few years, including yours.” He inclined his head almost imperceptibly. “But that was not what you wished to bring up.”

No. No, it had been Will’s oblique attempt at prodding Lecter into sharing his reflections on this goddamn arrangement. Something, anything. 

“A little hammy. The name.” A window of opportunity for Lecter to agree with Will on something.

But he didn’t. Instead: “Will, I assure you there need be no awkwardness between us during this or any other evening. I hope our conversation can proceed unobstructed by Chilton’s paperwork. If there is anything I -” 

“They think I need therapy, don’t they.”

It just bubbled out. Phrased like a question but inflected like a statement. It had been rankling at the back of Will’s mind ever since he’d read that Hannibal Lecter was a psychiatrist, but now - witnessing the exchange with Franklyn, hearing the professional perma-polish to Lecter’s tone - the puzzle pieces were falling into place. He was being handled. Babysat.

“Hence...this.” He gestured in Lecter’s general direction.

The doctor went still and regarded Will with blank eyes. “I’m not sure therapy will work on you. Stealing into other minds for your acting work has taught you how to fortify your own. So no - we are merely having conversations. Perhaps someday our friendship will be your way out of dark places when your methods send you there.”

Their food arrived, a beautifully plated oxtail agnolotti under a generous serving of fruit conserve, and a mortadella pizza. The former was yet another stunning example of Lecter’s unusual taste in food. The latter was the only dish on the menu with a description that didn’t sound wildly niche to Will, though even mortadella was still a little out of left field for him. He ordered a third cocktail before the waiter turned away.

“You read that bit in _The Atlantic_ about method acting, huh?”

“I read all of _The Atlantic_.” 

Of course.

“But Frederick keeps me up-to-date on all your clippings. As a devoted partner would be.”

Oh hell, now he’d done it. He’d gone and made it weird. Well, as long as things were already weird:

“The press think that there’s something in my head making me an especially good candidate for roles of a certain ugliness. That I absorb the worst around me and redirect it.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“How does it make _you_ feel?” Will threw back.

“I find it vulgar.”

That was unexpected. Will sat back, regarding the other man. “Me, too.”

But Lecter added, “And entirely possible.”

“It’s not true. That’s - that’s not my method.”

“Then when the time comes you will need to discuss it with the press or have one of us on Frederick’s team tell them.”

“Is this therapy or a support group?”

“It’s whatever you need it to be. Will, the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself when you choose, and not the worst of someone else.”

Will had no response to that. He felt a little naive for unthinkingly swallowing it down - it sounded like one of those neatly packaged high school classroom motivational posters, after all - but coming from Lecter it had an intense earnestness and gravity to it. 

“Thanks, ah,” he gestured awkwardly with his fork, “Dr. Lecter.”

“Please: Hannibal. I am not your doctor. And soon you will not be able to use ‘Dr.’ with the press.”

They moved on, then, to talk of the evil minds exhibit and the display cases being designed for it, with Hannibal Lecter displaying a surprising level of cinema knowledge: a brilliant reading of Christian Bale’s role in _American Psycho_ , reflections on _The Godfather_ , and a bizarrely poetic take on Anton Chigurh’s coin flip of violence in _No Country for Old Men_ , during which Will confessed he liked the film better than he had expected to. 

Towards the end of their meal Will began texting Franklyn about the ride home. No read receipts came through. He was mulling over how likely it might be for his condo to be on Hannibal’s way home when he became aware of shouts and a struggle in the dining room behind him. 

He turned in his seat. A 30-something man on a date had partly slid from his chair to the floor, taking some silverware and his glass with him, hand to his throat, face going brilliantly pink in patches. The soft murmur of the restaurant became pitchy with shrieks - various patrons yelling for 9-1-1 or yelling that there was no time, all at once and over each other. 

Will stood and whirled to see Hannibal’s reaction - and found his companion’s seat newly empty. 

Hannibal had risen and made his way over to the epicenter of the panic. Will watched with lips parted and eyes huge as though in a daze as Hannibal rolled his sleeves up to expose those forearms once again, pushed the choking man down to lie flat on the polished hardwood floor, and began running an unused steak knife over the candle on the couple’s table. He called once for epinephrine - nothing. At this hour the restaurant was mostly empty. 

“I know the Heimlich,” a waiter said weakly, and Hannibal ignored him and calmly asked for a wrapped straw.

Will’s eyes stayed fixed on the steak knife throughout. No fucking way, no fucking way Hannibal was going to - 

Except he did. When no epi-pen was available, Hannibal ran his fingers along the ridges of cartilage in the prone man’s neck, seeking the right indentation. With steady precision, he punched a slit using the flame-seared knife he had been readying. A thin line of blood appeared and was quickly dabbed away. Then with bare hands, sure and stable, he held the opening apart, tore open the straw, and forced it two inches in. 

“Steady the straw,” he said levelly to an onlooker who had turned stark white, and they wordlessly complied, kneeling at the man’s side and looking nauseous as air whistled weakly and shrilly through the tube. 

Someone else - phone to her ear - said EMS was on their way and stuck in traffic. Hannibal had made the right call. Rooted to his spot, extremities tingling and heart racing, Will stared at Hannibal over the heads of half a dozen gathered people, some crying, all a little shell-shocked. Briefly, briefly - Hannibal’s eyes met his, and reading nothing there, they darted away, back to the man on the ground.

\- - -

While a small gaggle of concerned diners - plus Will and Hannibal - waited for the ambulance to arrive, it began to rain outside. It was a quiet but steady and significant pitter-patter that left the streets mirror-like under streetlights and restaurant signs. After the freshly-trach’d man and his dinner date were shipped off en route to the hospital, Will went outside and waited under the overhang at the door, gazing out at pedestrians sharing umbrellas and sports cars splashing by.

There was movement by his elbow. An umbrella opened and stopped the light spray of rain that had been dusting Will’s nose.

"How did you know to skip the Heimlich?" Will asked without checking to see who it was.

"Inflammation indicated an autoimmune response to something consumed. His windpipe was closing, but there was no object in it."

The splotchy redness - of course. 

“Frederick will be pleased to know the managers have graciously waived the charge for our night out,” Hannibal said. There was a smile in his voice although his face didn’t show it. Indeed he hardly seemed to have reacted at all to the events of their evening. “Where is Mr. Froideveaux?” 

“Forgotten me, it looks like,” Will replied wryly.

He was in an odd state now. Aspects of it Will recognized from the feeling of being on set, flying through a killing sequence with choreographed accuracy. Other aspects he wasn’t quite familiar with, but they probably had something to do with the company of Hannibal himself. 

For the first time since Cannes, he regarded Hannibal curiously and deliberately, with a discreet sidelong glance. Hannibal was looking out at the road and passersby now, just as Will had been doing moments before. In one hand the doctor held an umbrella for the two of them, and in the other, he loosely clutched what was probably the keyless remote to his Bentley. In profile, Hannibal was peculiarly angular - moving light and shadows cast by passing cars played across his high forehead and sharp cheekbones, sinking and illuminating the deep hollows of his eye sockets and face by turns. And even now, at the end of June, he wore a long, expensive-looking ivory trench over an already layered outfit. It looked like Burberry. Actually, since this was Hannibal Lecter here, it probably was. 

It occurred to Will that his _Ripper_ character’s hairstyle was the same as Hannibal’s: slick and contained and pushed away from the forehead. That was an intriguing coincidence somehow. Will could use that, he thought. He could pepper his character with elements of Hannibal Lecter. 

“Let me drive you home, then,” Hannibal offered, extending the umbrella even closer to Will. 

“I can get a cab.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. It’s no trouble.”

The Bentley was parallel parked just around the corner. Will fell into stride next to Hannibal, feeling a secret rush of relief that he wouldn’t be crammed into the backseat of a smoky old sedan for the next twenty minutes.

\- - -

_Instagram post to Will Graham’s account, evening of 21 June 2013._  
[An unfiltered photo of oxtail agnolotti, sitting in a delicate sauce and garnished with fruit. No hashtags and no caption. The photo is geotagged “Faith and Flower.” The post was not made by Will Graham.]

\- - -

The next night, Will asked Chilton for Hannibal’s address and set off with a simple gift lying in his passenger seat. The address was dead-center in a gated Beverly Hills community - no surprise there. Will in his little Volvo passed palatial mansion after mansion along a winding stretch of palm-lined road with 6-figure sports cars in each driveway, feeling a funny pang of mixed self-consciousness and derision.

Mainly, though, he was curious. It wasn’t like him to emerge from his hole and do some recon like this, but Hannibal had seen his home twice now. It seemed only fair that Will should get to fill in some of the many the mysterious blanks that still remained on the doctor’s side. 

Google Maps announced the end of his trip as he pulled up, gaping, at a glass-and-concrete construction that looked more like a modern art museum than a private residence. Upstairs, everything was dark, but the first floor was flooded with warm light, revealing lush potted greenery, sleek white seating, and enormous framed canvas art on every stretch of wall that wasn’t composed solely of floor-to-ceiling window.

A high-end catering van occupied the portion of the driveway closest to the building. Apparently Will had showed up unannounced at what appeared to be the beginning stages of party preparation. 

He rang the doorbell, feeling unjustifiably nervous, and was greeted by Hannibal himself, dressed down in a simple shirt, black pants, and...an apron. It was a visual that simultaneously made no sense and absolute sense, and Will bit back a smile he wasn’t sure would be well-received. Too familiar. 

“I just wanted to drop off a, uh,” Will began stiffly, holding up the gift he had brought in a paper bag.

“Please,” said Hannibal simply. 

He led Will down a stark, echoing hallway lit by chandeliers like waterfalls of glowing rods dripping from the ceiling. At its end they reached a spacious kitchen with dark, mirrored appliances set into the walls, racks that suspended wine glasses upside down, and reflective white stone countertops that at the moment were covered in an assortment of prep gadgets and cookware and various diced or chopped or julienned herbs and vegetables. There was a flurry of continuous movement at the twin gas ranges and at the island, where a set of hired sous-chefs were arranging complicated-looking hors d'oeuvres on serving slabs of marble and laying charcuterie cuts on petrified wood.

“I have a butcher who carries sow’s blood,” Hannibal explained without prompting, situating himself at a centrifuge full of rich dark liquid. “Centrifugate, separate the matter from the water.” 

It occurred to Will that Hannibal was narrating his work for him as he moved along, like a cook on the Food Network. 

“Creates a transparent liquid. Serve with tomatoes in sweet suspension. Everybody will love the sweet taste.”

He assembled the dish in front of Will, who stood half hypnotized by the warm light in the kitchen and the soft, pleasant pinging of utensils against porcelain.

“I’m expecting twelve, including myself, but there is room for thirteen. I plan for contingencies. Can you stay?”

For a heartbeat Will was almost tempted to accept, but the prospect of facing nearly a dozen new people at this stage in his acquaintance with Hannibal was daunting. He thought of a few excuses: he wasn’t dressed for a nice dinner, he was running late to something else, he had to be present at film reshoots. 

He went with the truth: “I don’t think I’d be good company.”

“I disagree,” countered Hannibal, gracious to a fault. “But before you go, will you hand me that knife there?” 

It was a smooth, pointed thing with an ergonomic handle. Will gripped the blade and held it out, handle first, to Hannibal, who received it and began slicing fennel bulbs.

Reminded, Will blurted out, “Were you always a psychiatrist?”

Hannibal paused. Looked up at Will from under silvering bangs that had come loose from his usually slicked back style. “No. Once I was a surgeon.”

“Why did you stop being a surgeon?”

“I killed someone. More accurately, I couldn’t save someone. But it felt like killing them.”

“Has to happen from time to time.”

“It happened one time too many.” Hannibal resumed his slicing, finished, and swept the resulting delicate slivers aside into a wooden bowl. “I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. Now, I fix minds instead of bodies, and no one’s died as a result of my therapy.”

Considering this, Will absently crinkled his paper bag around the neck of the wine bottle concealed within. He kept his eyes trained on the movement of blade and fingers, fingers and blade. Finally, he tore them away, unpacked the bottle, and set it on the countertop between himself and Hannibal. 

“I should go. Got a date with my pillow.”

Hannibal nodded slightly.

“Wine’s for you,” Will added a bit too hastily. It was a Piorat from Catalonia. He had asked Franklyn’s advice on that one.

He turned to leave and was halfway down the hall to the foyer when quickly approaching footsteps made him pause and turn. Hannibal had followed him out of the kitchen, still in his apron and wiping both hands on a cloth, his expression finely balanced between curious and expectant.

“Will,” Hannibal said gently, the lines of his face softer in this light. “Why are you here?”

“What d’you mean?” 

No eye contact. Will tugged on his jacket and stuffed the crumpled paper bag into the pocket of his chinos. Hannibal patiently mirrored Will’s movements, tucking his hand towel into the pocket of his apron.

“You brought me wine, a traditional entertaining gift, yet I do not recall putting this event on your calendar. I believed it would not interest you at this juncture.”

“Enjoy the wine,” Will said firmly, and let himself out and into the drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moments re-framed from S01E02 "Amuse Bouche":  
> \- Evil Minds museum  
> \- "merely having conversations"; "a way out of dark places" etc.  
> \- vulgar vs. possible
> 
> Re-framed from S01E07 "Sorbet":  
> \- vocal chords shot & opera singer  
> \- Franklyn and Hannibal like the same things  
> \- emergency surgery in public  
> \- "I don't think I'd be good company"; dropping off wine


	5. Loose lips sink ships all the damn time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There may or may not be an animal in the wall. Will unexpectedly becomes someone's houseguest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episodes sampled: S01E07 "Sorbet," S01E08 "Fromage."

_Perez Hilton, 22 June 2013. Will Graham: NOT GOING HOME ALONE AFTER CANDLELIT DINNER._

_Will Graham of #SadGrahamCracker fame (and a few indie movies too, I guess) might have snagged himself a sugar daddy...and a heroic one too! Will and L.A. fixture Hannibal Lecter were spotted out at Faith & Flower having a long candlelit dinner that ended in a SICK emergency tracheotomy. We’re told patient is doing fine. And Will Graham is doing FIIIIINE if you catch my drift. Hit the link below for cell phone footage from an onlooker (GRAPHIC). Will and Hannibal were later seen going home together in a Bentley - OWWW!_

\- - -

Late June brought with it a string of dusty, scorching days, the sun so harsh the sky became a flat, white hot sheet of glare. The heat made everything sluggish and silent. Birds and frogs went quiet at dawn and dusk, and Will’s usually noisy gardener neighbors stopped going outside to snip at their bushes or run the sprinklers. It slowed Will down, too - he and Winston spent more time indoors, and he started to wake too late in the morning in an irritable haze, as though no matter how much he slept, it was never quite enough. He developed a recurring migraine that worsened with the light, at times so strong he thought he might even be hearing things.

The new television didn’t help. It stood in the living room, a fancy, flat-screen Bang & Olufsen set that was ostensibly from Hannibal, but that Will suspected was actually gifted and chosen by his agency, particularly Jack Crawford. Regardless, Will kept the set, and it became a softly masochistic ritual for him to brush Winston’s coat on the couch while keeping up with the news. 

In between local news coverage of Hannibal’s heroic turn at dinner the other night aired clips on fires that were threatening to climb into the valley from drier parts north. Will hated hearing either one: hated hearing his name mentioned in hinted romantic connection with Hannibal, hated the constant reminder of danger looming just outside city limits, and hated feeling the pain he saw on worry-etched faces of fire victims being interviewed about their charred, destroyed homes. He took to anonymously donating to GoFundMe profiles for fire disasters. 

Sometimes he also secretly took to watching special features on a wave of slayings passing over the greater Los Angeles area, even as far away as Irvine. The weeks-ago high profile abduction case that had turned into a brutally staged Hollywood Hills murder tableau was, it seemed, inspiring fledging killers to spread their wings. Now they were saying the FBI were getting involved as consultants to the LAPD. 

It turned Will’s stomach to wonder if Chilton and Crawford had sent him the BeoVision in order to - what had _The Atlantic_ said? - encourage mental stress and squeeze a stronger, scarier performance out of him. 

Well, something was happening. That much was true. His on-set confidence hadn’t waned. He was reshooting fewer takes. The studio was seriously discussing whether they would file for award show consideration. But he was also shedding less and less of his character when he left the soundstage, and inexplicable, strange things were happening to him again.

One night, following the conclusion of a segment on a UC Davis student who had impaled a classmate on a fence, Will paused mid-brush with Winston a tangle of limbs next to him on the couch. There was a distant noise - an animal wail - barely audible over the the next news story.

“At ten,” the anchor was booming, “an exclusive interview with the man who received an emergency tracheotomy from a local former surgeon under remarkable circumstances -”

Will muted her. The wail sounded again, pitchier this time. Looking sidelong at Winston, Will scanned the dog’s posture for any sign of a reaction, but he remained as relaxed as he had been while being brushed. 

Flashlight, boots, thick jacket to protect against scratches - Will pulled all three from his wall closet and equipped himself on the move, following the cries out the door and around the side of the building. The yard was warm and dry and deserted. Not even the tiny gnats that usually swarmed the neighborhood after dusk were out tonight; he could tell by the clean, speck-free and uninterrupted beam that his flashlight threw upon the grass and up against the stucco wall. He could see no signs of an animal in distress, but he could still hear it, its cries growing higher and causing Will to wince and put a hand against the building for support.

Oh hell. It was in the wall.

Phone already in hand and dialing the local animal control night desk, Will ran back inside to contain Winston in his pen. Only after drawing a large, permanent marker “X” over the spot in the wall where the poor thing was trapped did Will pause, step back, and re-center himself. 

Without knowing why, he also tapped out a few quick messages to Hannibal, but doubted the man would see them. He seemed the early-to-bed-early-to-rise type. Probably wore coordinated silk pajamas, too.

**> > there’s an animal in the house, thinking a possum  
>> going to tear down part of my wall to get it out**

Read receipt: 10:09 PM. No reply. Not that early to bed, then.

Animal control took their time. Will was about to take a hammer to the wall alone and simply wrap the frightened creature in a towel to transport it outside when the doorbell finally rang. He dropped his tools to let in a scruffy man from the night shift wearing a forest green jumpsuit and toting a plastic animal carrier in one hand. 

B ZELLER, declared his nametag in bright red stitching. The man’s expression shifted from bored to confused when he stepped into the living room and saw Will’s X-marks-the-spot handiwork. 

“Hey man,” Zeller said carefully, glancing at Winston where he lay serenely in his dog bed. “You said there was a lot of wailing? I don’t hear anything.”

Will shook his head. “It’s stopped. Give it a sec.”

Together he and Zeller rapped their knuckles all over the living room wall, pressed their ears to its surface, and listened for signs of life. Sure enough, when Zeller became exasperated and began packing his things to go, the keening wails sounded again. Will shot up and turned to Zeller, trying not to look too excited at the sudden vindication. 

“There - there it is. That shrieking. God, it’s louder now.”

He went for Zeller’s discarded tool belt, which contained a number of rescue implements, but was stopped by a firm grip on his forearm before he could commandeer its hefty mallet. Surprised, he looked up through loose, sweaty curls (when had he broken a sweat?) to find the other man staring hard at him, thick brows furrowed and shoulders set as though ready to fight or struggle if he needed to. 

That was an interesting reaction. 

Will dropped the tools immediately while Zeller breathed a sigh of what sounded horribly like relief. He backed against the wall, looking anywhere but at the animal control staffer, suddenly feeling sheepish and guilty as ugly understanding dawned.

“You okay, man?” said Zeller, taking a step forward and reaching out as though to place the back of his hand against Will’s forehead.

Instinctively Will jerked back.

“There’s nothing,” Zeller continued forcefully, then lowered his voice. “Look, if you’re on something, you need to sleep it off now. Or see a doctor or something. You’re totally white and really clammy. I can’t hear anything - there’s nothing.”

“No. No, there was - I - I heard it. Squeaky - and shrieky, like it’s in pain or scared. There it goes-”

“Look at your dog, man. He’s completely calm.”

Will went still, feeling the weight of Zeller’s words smack him in the face like a sack full of bricks. Sure enough, across the room, Winston remained lying happily in his bed, tail swishing from side to side as he looked between the two men. Winston, who barked at squirrels and barked when the neighbor’s lawnmower turned on. That Winston. Quiet and unbothered.

There was nothing in the wall.

The episodes of hallucinations and lost time - just like the one he’d had in the presence of poor Selena Gomez a while back, or the one that left him barefoot in the Hills in the early morning even before that - were returning.

He remained sitting against the wall with knees pulled up and hands hanging loosely over them while Zeller packed his things, excused himself awkwardly, and headed for the door. At the threshold he paused and called over his shoulder, “You got company.”

Two car doors slammed in quick succession. One was animal control, peeling out of the driveway, and the other was - 

“Will.”

Fuck. 

“I received your messages,” said Hannibal Lecter, gliding into the foyer, warmly backlit by the porchlight. 

He looked like he had dressed in a hurry: his look tonight was monochromatic and lacked his usual layers. He must have headed out within minutes of seeing Will’s texts.

“I didn’t want you to wrangle a frightened or wounded animal by yourself. But it looks like animal control has already done the job.”

When there was no response, Hannibal inclined his head at the bitter smile on Will’s face. Then, from his spot on the living room floor, Will dragged his hands down his face and began to laugh. It came out oddly, punctuated by jerky shakes of the head and sounds that were closer to sighs than chuckles. Only the worried look on Hannibal’s face stopped the sudden fit of mild mania. 

“There was nothing,” Will explained around his grin, knowing he looked awful. “Probably stress or exhaustion-”

But before he could finish making his excuses and apologize for wasting Hannibal’s time this late at night, Hannibal had crossed the living room in several large strides and disappeared up the stairs. Will blinked, surprised, then frantically followed, taking the steps two at a time to find his visitor carefully searching the closet for clean clothes and tucking them into the ratty messenger bag Will normally carried to set. 

It was clear what was going on, but even so, Will stood in the doorway and gaped. He also made a mental note to buy himself a better work bag.

Without turning, Hannibal said, “We’re going to my home in Beverly Hills, where I can keep an eye on you in case of emergency.” Then, anticipating Will’s next question: “We will be back in time for you to see to your dog in the morning.” 

“Shouldn’t I see a doctor?”

“I am a doctor.”

Into the bag went pajamas and a couple of button downs. Hannibal stopped short of the underwear drawer, then straightened and stepped aside and into the hall as if to allow Will the comfort of finishing the job in privacy. The doctor was nothing if not monumentally considerate, playing the gracious host even in someone else’s home, and Will felt a rush of gratitude at being looked after for once.

As long as it stayed a one-time thing. Just until these stress episodes, or whatever they were, went away. If they went away.

Hannibal was a steady, quiet driver who did not force conversation if it wasn’t happening naturally. So they hit the road in silence - silence that was only broken when they pulled up in front of Hannibal’s angular, glassy house at the end of a winding private drive. Being on the doorstep reminded Will of the night he showed up unannounced with a bottle of wine and bolted when he couldn’t articulate for Hannibal exactly why he had done so. He still couldn’t. 

“You don’t date, do you?” Will wondered aloud, point-blank. Then he added, “Outside of this...you know, this thing.” He forced a smile to lighten the question, and to highlight that he was mostly being facetious.

There was a jingle as Hannibal dropped his keys in a blown glass bowl near the door. He slid a wall aside to reveal a painfully organized coat closet and hung up Will’s jacket, then quietly began a series of ritualistic movements from the foyer into the living room that were almost uncomfortable to watch in their intimate domesticity: lining up shoes here, moving a coaster there, stacking newspapers and medical journals in a neat pile on the plinth-like coffee table, and dimming several lamps one-at-a-time with a sleek-looking master remote.

“Why are you assuming I don’t date?”

“Do you?”

Hannibal only smiled, looking almost demure, and gestured for Will to follow him into the house and up a set of floating stairs.

Something had shifted now - quietly, quietly. In allowing Will to observe the process of readying the house for the evening, Hannibal had masterfully shattered a remaining barrier, whether intentionally or not. He had humanized himself - his angular, foreign, I-have-secret-surgical-know-how self - in such a way that Will no longer felt Hannibal’s presence to be that of a stiff, superior handler. 

They stopped at a hall closet, from which Hannibal drew a stack of precisely folded navy towels, slippers, and a toiletry set with labels that appeared to all be in French. 

Worry made Will more voluble than usual. “Wondering if I should have Chilton do something about the animal control guy. Like swear him to silence somehow. He knew.”

“What did he know, Will?”

“There wasn’t an animal in the wall. It was only in my head.”

They rounded a corner and Hannibal led the way into a guest room with a view that momentarily winded Will. Like all of Hannibal’s ground floor rooms, this one had walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, one of which overlooked Los Angeles through a set of lush trees. With the lights off except for a small bedside lamp, the nighttime city could be seen in startling detail: every office window, every streetlamp, the blinking of every little plane that passed over the horizon. 

“Did he say that?” asked Hannibal, setting his little tower of amenities on the platform bed in the center of the room and smoothing invisible imperfections out of its slate gray sheets. 

“Yeah, but he barely had to. I sleepwalk. I - I draw horrible things I can’t remember drawing, and then they wind up looking like murders in the news. I get headaches, I hear things.” Then, softly, like a confession: “I feel unstable.”

Hannibal lowered himself into a chair with metal arms, crossed his legs at the knee, and folded both hands on his thigh. Will mirrored the pose, seated on the edge of the bed. Their eyes met in a way that was unexpectedly natural, like Will was looking into a mirror rather than at a work acquaintance.

“Do you find yourself clutching for balance?” his host asked.

A wry, lopsided smile. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You worry that what you do is not good for you.”

“Ding ding ding. Unfortunately, I’m good for it.” 

“Or so say Crawford and company.”

Absently Will traced circles into the sheet near his leg, debating whether to mention the rest. Seated in his chair, looking like a concerned therapist during office hours, Hannibal seemed harmless and well-meaning enough. And he had kindly invited Will into his own home.

“I can assume points of view,” Will began slowly. Testing the waters. Eye contact was unavoidably critical now - he would need to look for any minute shift in Hannibal’s smooth mien as a signal to stop. “Years ago I was an artist in New York - yeah, I know - and I got used to a certain style. Did a lot of metalwork, woodwork. Sometimes combined them. Borrowed the material from my own nightmares.”

“You’ve had these nightmares for very long, then?”

“Years and years.”

“Of what did this borrowed material consist?”

“Started small: abstract pieces that looked like machines...like torture devices. Spikes, gears, rust everywhere - that kind of thing. Lots of it pulled from my childhood working on boats with my dad, moving from small, dying town to small, dying town. The nightmares got worse,” Will shifted uncomfortably, “and I sculpted people. Unhinged jaws, open rib cages, faces without eyes.”

Hannibal was silent.

“At one point the student newspaper at my art school profiled me as ‘criminally insane.’”

“You were no stranger to idle, malicious gossip even before your acting career, then.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

And the rest bubbled forth like foam from a champagne bottle, as though Will had been waiting a decade to tell the story and had never encountered the right audience before. He outlined in the briefest detail his old insomnia, his night terrors, his dysfunctional waking nightmare states while working in sculpture. 

The worse the nightmares, the more stunning and horrific the art - until, in a fit of knee-jerk rage and panic, he injured himself in the studio while struggling with a piece he thought had moved by itself. Will was in recovery for weeks, and the sculpture, badly damaged and never repaired, never sold. Beverly helped him put it into storage since he could not bring himself to destroy and discard it, and the thought of keeping it in their apartment made his stomach turn and set him on edge. After that, it had been an easy choice transitioning to an acting career through which he could sublimate his own demons while pretending to be other people.

Hannibal listened elegantly without comment or any discernable expression, and yet Will felt strongly that he had registered every syllable with care and...respect? Or something like it. The sensation was wholly new. Between this and the beautiful room and fresh towels, Will was starting to feel like he stood a good chance of becoming spoiled by Chilton’s couple scheme.

The doctor interjected only once, and it was to ask what the offending sculpture had been.

Will almost lied in order to preserve whatever illusion of normalcy he might still be able to sustain. But instead he admitted, “A wendigo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moments re-framed from S01E07 "Sorbet":  
> \- emergency surgery
> 
> Re-framed from S01E08 "Fromage":  
> \- animal in the wall; hearing things  
> \- "you don't date, do you?"  
> \- "I feel unstable"  
> \- "clutch for balance"


	6. Lights flash and we’ll run for the fences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New acquaintances. Errands. Getting comfortable at Casa Lecter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episodes sampled: S01E07 "Sorbet," S01E08 "Fromage," S01E12 "Relevés," S02E08 "Su-Zakana," S02E12 "Tome Wan."

Will woke on a filming-free Sunday after sleeping a solid eight hours - probably a record for the whole of his adult life so far. The early morning light outside was cold and brittle still, filtering between the leaves of a small grove of trees and leaving dancing, dappled shadows on the sheets. A strange, hot silence still suffused the air, but it felt tranquil and balmy now rather than suffocating and hostile. 

He must have slept well. In the weariness of his limbs and his quickened pulse, he could feel that he’d had night terrors - same as always - but he couldn’t remember the content of any of them. That had to count for something.

The ultra-modern bedside clock read half past seven. Swinging both legs over the side of the platform bed, Will stretched unhurriedly and saw that Hannibal had left a pair of cushy, fleece-lined house moccasins in exactly the right spot on the floor nearby, turned so that they could be slipped on without Will having to step out of bed. Nice touch.

Then he took his time showering, not so much out of leisure but out of necessity, as all the fancy knobs and dials and levers in the guest bathroom were of a level of complexity that better suited spaceship controls than water taps. And as with the moccasins, when he stepped out of the three-jet, doorless shower, Will saw that there were already a number of matching towels in place, just within arm’s reach. Incredible, truly. Hannibal was something else.

Will was brushing his teeth and wondering how insanely _extra_ Hannibal’s master bathroom must be, if the guest bathroom was already this well-appointed, when he pushed on the sink lever the wrong way and a little too hard. 

The entire thing came off in his hand with a dull, metallic scraping noise.

For nearly a full minute he stood there in shock, numbly holding the detached handle, toothbrush still in his mouth and threatening to drop right out. His first (defensive, rude) instinct was to put it in a drawer and never bring it up. His second (better, civilized) idea was to get dressed, go downstairs, thank Hannibal for the hospitality, and offer to fix it. Which he set off to do.

“The handle on the tap kinda came off,” Will announced loudly, descending the floating stairs with messenger bag slung over one shoulder, bits of shirtsleeve as well as last night’s clothing hanging out of the unbuckled flap. “No need to call anyone, I can get my tools and-”

He stopped dead on the halfway landing. There was a sinewy, glamorous woman with short, jet-black hair reclining on one of the couches in the living room, wearing loud lipstick and what could only be described as some kind of _Sex and the City_ revival getup. In one hand she held a generously full mimosa - at this hour - and balanced a little dish of lox and capers in the other.

She looked at Will and Will looked back at her, feeling the tips of his ears go a little pink at how this must look to her.

“My, Hannibal,” she said to the man seated next to her, her eyes never leaving Will’s face. “You didn’t tell me you had a guest already! And so _gorgeous._ ”

Hannibal moved immediately to arrange a seat at the coffee table for Will, and began plating another serving of a light breakfast as well. Will thought he saw him smile at her compliment, but couldn’t be sure. A moment, and it had passed. 

“There is always a place in my home and a seat at my table for another friend,” said the host, motioning for Will to join them in the bright, airy room. 

He and the campy woman were framed by enormous indoor greenery - some kind of tropical plant with wide, waxy leaves, the sort Will pictured classical people might have fanned their fancy emperors with. A giant bird of paradise, maybe. What an image. He bit back a grin as he tucked into his breakfast across from the theatrical-looking pair.

“Will Graham,” he said, simply and quietly, maintained eye contact for a fraction of a second, and dropped his eyes to his food. 

The woman introduced herself as a Mrs. Komeda, Hannibal’s neighbor from down the street, and she had dropped by on her way out of town on business. Will recognized the name instantly and nearly choked on his salmon. The Komedas ran the city’s largest marketing and publicity firm, and their daughter Kimberly was the ringleader of a socialite pack currently on a popular reality show. She’d accosted Will once or twice in the past months at functions Chilton had all but blackmailed him into attending. 

“I think you know Kimberly,” Mrs. Komeda said, practically reading Will’s mind. “Or she knows you. Or...rather...she wanted to get to know you. So to speak.” She raised both eyebrows archly and took a sip of her cocktail. “But this - oh, I couldn’t be happier for you both.”

In a world where doublespeak was the norm, Will wouldn’t have been surprised if Mrs. Komeda had been speaking sardonically, but as far as he could tell, she meant it. Mrs. Komeda - this bold, saucy string bean of a woman - completely meant it. She was entirely pleased as punch (and looked like punch, too) that her normally solitary neighbor had found someone. 

Will automatically opened his mouth to correct her, but was silenced by a single subtle shake of the head from Hannibal.

There was more. What followed was nearly hour of Mrs. Komeda regaling Will at length with stories of legendary dinner parties from years past, narrowly avoided social disasters, embarrassing run-ins at the opera, and - perhaps most mortifyingly - what it was like going to the same luxury gym as Hannibal Lecter. (“This silver fox may have the hair of a fifty year old, but he’s got the ass of a college athlete,” she chirped, “but you knew that already, didn’t you, honey?” It was lucky Will had run out of fish to choke on by then.)

Shortly before nine, Hannibal began gently cueing Mrs. Komeda to leave, using Will’s dog - left behind in Beverlywood - as an excuse. Will was beginning to associate Hannibal with relief, not least because of his preternatural talent for herding people away in the direction he wanted them to go, and without them feeling handled. 

Mrs. Komeda was a veritable stream of affirmation as she went. “...Have to have you over at the Lake Como house,” she was saying, hands fanning and bracelets jingling, protracting the walk down the echoing hall with date ideas for the two men. She was the type that spoke with her hands a lot. “It’s so romantic. The mountains, _oh._ My nephew got married there last year. And George Clooney’s place is right down the drive - I bet he’d love to do wine night again, Hannibal.” 

_Again?_ thought Will. He was an actor and even he hadn’t so much as seen the top of Clooney’s head from across the room at an awards show.

“Oh, but.” Mrs. Komeda stopped suddenly in her tracks at the door. “But not like 1999. No one’s reliving 1999 Lake Como.”

“What happened in 1999 at Lake Como?” Will asked innocently, wondering if Hannibal and Mrs. Komeda had had a torrid New Year’s affair to ring in the new millennium. Even though he had no business thinking it.

“We don’t talk about it,” Mrs. Komeda replied mock-seriously, punctuating her words with a little tap on Will’s nose. “Or we do, but with four drinks inside, first.”

She took Will’s face in both manicured, bejeweled hands, causing him to jerk in surprise. He felt her heavy rings cold against his skin and tried to pull back, but she held fast.

“Oh, look at you - oh, those eyes. Goodness. Hannibal.” She looked at her minutely smiling host, inclining her head fondly. “Well done.”

If Will doubted whether Hannibal had smiled demurely earlier at breakfast, there was no doubt this time. Hannibal returned Mrs. Komeda’s gushing with a little bow of the head and a minute smile, eyes cast down. Will watched his face curiously, realizing with dim discomfort that he couldn’t read Hannibal’s emotions as well as he could read other people’s.

Then Mrs. Komeda kissed both men on both cheeks - or attempted to do so with Will, who thought she was going for a hug and inadvertently thwarted the gesture by stiffly blocking her face with an arm and then a shoulder. To her credit, she was wholly unperturbed by Will’s gaucheness, possibly delighted by the thought of Hannibal having a fixer-upper kind of project on his hands. Finally, with a warbling laugh, she gathered up her pink skirts, climbed into a gleaming Range Rover, and was off. 

Will watched her car get smaller and smaller as it sped away, and when it turned a corner and vanished, he leaned against the doorjamb and raised an eyebrow at Hannibal.

“You know she’s going to tell all her friends,” he said. “I could see it in her face when she saw me on the stairs.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Frederick’s vision depends in part upon the unwitting participation of storytellers. Mrs. Komeda is one. And she will be a far more flattering weaver of tales than others you and I will encounter on this journey.”

Will let out a short, genuine laugh and stepped out onto the porch. 

“Fancy way of saying we need gossipers, and at least she likes us more than others will.”

Humming in agreement, Hannibal locked the house behind them. 

“You were saying about the guestroom tap?” Hannibal prompted once they were buckled into the Bentley and setting off for Will’s condo, a trip that was feeling noticeably shorter by the week.

\- - -

That afternoon, Will returned to reattach the tap handle in Hannibal’s bathroom. When the job was done, Hannibal made them both a lunch of light sandwiches - roasted vegetable and goat cheese, as well as an ice-cold pitcher of lavender infused lemonade. Will hadn’t even known one could buy non-potpourri lavender outside of Provence.

They ate out back on the patio overlooking the city - but “patio” was a weak classification at best. Behind the house was a vast, glassy pool with artfully arranged boulders here and there, an attached jacuzzi, and a series of wide, blocky platforms cutting through the water like a stepping stone bridge on steroids. Half in and half out of the shallows were a line of reclining chairs that would allow the lounger to sun while they dipped their feet in the pool. 

Dead center of it all was an unlit fire pit. Will had a sudden, annoying vision of Hannibal partying with people far more interesting than Will was, all tanned and glamorous and well-traveled, models and millionaires up to their armpits in the water and resting their cocktails on the ledge of the fire pit. This was built to be a party house. Hadn’t Mrs. Komeda said something about legendary parties?

“House of this size...but you don’t seem to have regular staff,” Will observed, not really meaning anything by it.

“I value my privacy.”

Will snorted unattractively. “And yet you agreed to this arrangement with Chilton and Crawford. That doesn’t say ‘private’ to me.”

Hannibal actually shrugged, which Will had never seen him deign to do before, but he made the gesture look graceful. 

“I was curious what would happen,” explained the doctor, and he refilled both their lemonades, saying no more.

It became too easy, after that day, to begin using Hannibal’s home as a retreat. Will fell into a routine: on filming days, he would stop by in the evening for a spot of freshly brewed turmeric tea and shortbread biscuits before returning to Winston, and on off days he would spend most of the daytime there, studying his script in the living room, connecting his 80s rock playlist to Hannibal’s in-ceiling surround sound system, or playing sous chef and helping his gracious host preheat the oven or dice onions for a meal. 

Every now and then, Hannibal even let Will bring Winston and play fetch with him on the sprawling green lawn surrounding the backyard pool. He was wary of where the dog went while indoors, especially if it had recently rained, since so many of the textiles and surfaces in the house were stark, glaring white. Still, that Hannibal would allow a four-legged friend of Will’s within a mile of his home was a testament to just how bizarrely agreeable the doctor was. 

Annoyingly, the two were indeed becoming friendly, as Hannibal had once suggested. (Predicted?) So much so that Will spent the weekend of the Fourth of July at Hannibal’s and didn’t tell Chilton. 

It wasn’t that he was leaving his agent out of the loop on purpose, exactly. That would suggest Will was enjoying himself and wanted to keep some small part of this...this friendship...private and real and honest. Nah, that wasn’t what was going on. Holiday weekends were sacred, work-free times, that was all. No need to bug Chilton, wherever he was. (In fact, he was in Ibiza with old USC college friends, texting an impressive collection of douchey yacht party photos to Will in which Chilton’s shirts were invariably unbuttoned nearly to the navel.)

On the fourth, while Chilton was having beach cocktails by moonlight (“I’m gonna kill him if I get charged international rates for these texts,” Will grumbled), Will asked Hannibal to let him take charge of a simple cookout in the yard. The rules were simple: no fancy add-ons besides ketchup, mustard, and relish. No herbs, no embellishments, no techniques involving the words “flambé” or “fricassée.”. There would be hot dogs, grilled veggies, potato salad, and mac and cheese. And the buns had to come out of a plastic baggie with a little pinchy clip. No firing up Hannibal’s $400 Williams-Sonoma bread maker that was, frankly, terrifying in its Space Odyssey metallic squarishness. 

When Hannibal was done staring into the void before him - presumably begging God for mercy upon his immortal soul or something to that effect - he acquiesced in his usual courtly manner. But he didn’t have any of those pedestrian items stocked in his kitchen.

“Perhaps you will allow me to contribute a panko crusted gruyere macaroni dish,” the good doctor tried to bargain while they shopped for materials at the local market. “I have a new Le Creuset bakeware set to inaugurate-”

“No French,” said Will, shaking a bell pepper at him. “Whether food or implements. If it’s French, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Technically gruyere is of Swiss origin, although the name-”

“By the way, the potato salad?” Will dropped a sealed plastic tub of a chunky, yellowish store-made concoction into the basket hanging (daintily?) from Hannibal’s elbow. “Boom. _Pre-made._ ”

Maybe it was the look of abject horror that flashed across Hannibal’s face for a fraction of a second, or maybe it was the prospect of being entirely unmonitored by the studio and his agency for a long weekend - but something was putting Will in an uncommonly good humor, and he was making displays of levity he didn’t care to hide, for once. 

“Will, I do not pray, but today you may have inspired me to take up the practice.” 

Hannibal gingerly picked up the tub of potato salad by the edge of its lid and turned it this way and that, inspecting it with lip slightly curled. Will laughed openly at the disarmingly funny visual, caught himself, and hid his grin behind a hand and turned it into a chin scratch. Smoothly, he hoped. 

When they had collected all the items on Will’s list - plus star anise, which Hannibal insisted he needed to restock in his pantry - both men automatically made a beeline to the self-checkout machine without verbal coordination. So they both had a streak of everyday introversion, choosing to function alone when they could, rather than smile at a stranger over a credit card reader. 

Reminded, Will cocked his head and ventured, “You never did answer my question. About whether you date.”

Hannibal didn’t look up from his methodical scanning. Hot dogs, plastic bagged buns, and the rest of their groceries went into a pair of canvas shopping totes that he had apparently brought with him and folded into a jacket pocket. 

“You have spent ample time in my company these weeks to make a reasonably educated guess.”

“So no,” said Will simply. 

“And yourself?”

Hannibal paid with a matte black credit card, which he produced from a slim, expensive-looking leather card case.

“Too broken to date,” Will joked, hand to his heart in a wounded gesture. Then: “Good. This is good. Means I’m not making you miss out on loads of prospects while you’re...ah, babysitting me and chauffeuring me around L.A.”

Out of an inexplicable sense of duty, Will carried both canvas bags as they headed for the automatic doors. They slid aside to reveal a pair of men in baseball caps and running shoes, cameras with enormous zoom lenses slung around their necks. They were both scrolling on their phones, but one looked up and smacked the other when Will and Hannibal emerged. The phones went away and the cameras were raised - 

“Will Graham!” one of the paparazzi called, and with more gravity than he’d ever said it in his life, Will hissed, “ _Shit._ ”

Dimly aware that he would later be mortified and apologetic about it, Will shifted both shopping bags into the same hand, grabbed a fistful of Hannibal’s jacket with the other, and yanked the other man back and to the side, using the combined momentum of their body weights to help them quickly change direction. They practically fell back into the store together, and Will accidentally slammed Hannibal against a Coinstar machine in a hurry to get them back inside where the photographers could not follow. 

Then - and Will would think about this for weeks, reliving the embarrassment over and over - there was a strange, suspended moment during which both men stood nearly chest-to-chest against the quietly humming Coinstar, Will breathing heavily. Hannibal met his eyes curiously for a fleeting moment before Will dropped his gaze to his own hand, knuckles white with tension, still wound up in the front of Hannibal’s jacket. Eyes downcast, he continued to feel Hannibal’s gaze like a beam of gentle heat at such a close distance. 

He released Hannibal’s jacket and backed off. 

“Shit,” Will said again, as though the rest of his vocabulary had fallen out of his ass the moment he locked eyes with the first photographer. “Shit, sorry.”

But Hannibal was nothing if not absolutely, preternaturally unflappable. He was about as bothered as he had been while pushing a suffocating man to the floor and punching a slit in the hollow of his throat with a candle-disinfected steak knife. Meaning: not at all. Without losing composure, Hannibal straightened his jacket, righted the position of both cuffs, and led the two of them out a side door as though he had employed it for this purpose before. Market staff paid them no mind as they passed, and they made their way to the Bentley at a brisk jog, heads ducked. 

“So they work holidays,” Will grumbled, once safely on the road. “Good to know.”

The rest of the weekend was less eventful. Having learned his lesson, Will nixed venturing out in favor of utilizing the living room and backyard of of Casa Lecter to the best of his ability. For some still undisclosed reason (and Will suspected it had something to do with either profound loneliness or the sociable eccentricity that often came with Hannibal’s kind of milieu and wealth), Hannibal seemed to be quietly delighted by Will’s constant presence in the house. 

Throughout the extended visit, Will was dimly and continuously aware of a pair of eyes on him: it persisted while he grilled hot dogs by the pool, read lines with Winston at the kitchen island, and hammered out the world’s laziest rendition of chopsticks on the piano (Beverly had taught him). It was that same gentle warmth of observation from the market after their paparazzi run-in. But far from making him squirmy with discomfort the way strangers’ scrutiny did, Hannibal’s benevolent and even amused surveillance was _nice._ For the most part, it was curious and non-intrusive and...felt oddly non-human. Almost like being watched by a silent, reclining housecat. 

Regardless, true to form, Will began to feel antsy by the third evening of his visit, fearing he was overstaying his welcome. Like Hannibal really yearned to kick him out but was too polite of a host to do it. 

It worsened a creeping headache. While sunset colors played out across the sky in broad brushstrokes, Will lay back on one of Hannibal’s enormous Italian leather sectionals in the living room and idly crinkled his highlighted, dog-eared script for Monday’s shooting block. He had long since stopped taking in anything new. His attention kept jumping to sudden noises in the background - Winston sneezing, a glass clinking in the kitchen - and he thought of how he might phrase his escape notice. It would have to be subtle, elegant, appreciative - and reveal very little but give the appearance of openness. Something befitting Hannibal’s social grace.

But before he could settle on an excuse, a glass of water and an open palm with two white tablets in it appeared at Will’s side. 

“Ibuprofen,” said Hannibal simply. 

Will fought against the cushions to right himself and relieved Hannibal of both glass and medication.

“Sorry I had my feet on your couch.”

Hannibal seemed the type to care.

“Will, you would need to do much worse to trouble me. I do not keep a regular office any longer, but when I did, one patient of mine stabbed a chair with a knife he had smuggled into our session.”

“Jesus.”

“So my threshold of tolerance may surprise you.”

Will gestured at himself and smiled lopsidedly. “It already has.” He popped both tablets into his mouth and downed half the glass in one gulp with head tilted back. He was conscious, again, of that warm persistent gaze upon him as he did so. 

“How did you know?” he asked, returning the glass to Hannibal’s outstretched hand. 

“You’ve largely stayed out of the heat and the sun today. Light sensitivity, noise sensitivity - both without heavy drinking. And some mannerisms suggesting physical stress.”

Hannibal retreated and tinkered in the kitchen for a little while after that, then brought out tea and biscuits, which they consumed wordlessly to the ambient noise of a violin concerto - Will on the couch with cup and dish on the coffee table, and Hannibal at a desk, silhouetted against the darkening sky. 

Curious, Will peered at his host over the top of his script, taking great pains not to be obvious about it. He had a lamp on and appeared to be reading on a tablet. No - he was queuing up classical music on fucking Spotify. Will almost wanted a photo of the scene. He had never, for a single moment since Cannes, pictured Hannibal Lecter using an iPad to browse Spotify. Hannibal downloading apps to an Apple product somehow didn’t compute. Now, Hannibal and an abacus? Sure. Or an obscure assortment of 18th century maritime navigational gear that only three people in the world could read, two of them seasoned academics. A tablet, though - this was just wild. 

Queuing finished, Hannibal slid open his desk drawer and produced what looked like a notepad and pencils. Will shifted in his seat and drew himself to the end closest to the desk. Hannibal paused and glanced up. Will folded himself back up again, pretending to be deep in contemplation of his lines. 

And so they went, Will inching closer and closer to the skritch-skritch-skritch of Hannibal’s pencil on paper. Hannibal worked as if in a trance, enveloped in a contemplative dome of silence that was heavier than the air in the rest of the room. 

At last, unable to contain his curiosity, Will gave up the charade and stood, heading for the warm light of the lamp. For a few steps as he approached the desk, he felt a peculiar frisson of uneasiness and was momentarily shocked by it - it came from so far afield. He couldn’t place it. But he had the strangest idea he was being reeled in by something coiled while he approached Hannibal’s desk. The same way Winston had warily approached Will's car weeks ago for the promise of hot dogs. 

The feeling dissipated once he was close enough to see the implements lying around Hannibal’s desk. A booklet of art-grade canson paper, pencils of various darkness sharpened to lethal points, a kneadable eraser. A classical scene, with grief and pain softly and sensitively rendered. No reference image. Hannibal could draw and had never mentioned it. Will felt winded and wasn’t sure why.

“Achilles and Patroclus?” he guessed, and Hannibal hummed in affirmation.

“Whenever he is mentioned in the _Iliad_ , Patroclus seems to be defined by his empathy,” Hannibal said, setting down his pencils. “Not unlike yourself in the media.”

“Patroclus became Achilles on the field of war. The ultimate performance. Died for it. Must have been too convincing out there. You know, I played Patroclus onstage once in high school. Technically my first acting gig.”

Hannibal smiled - a rare one, one that crinkled the downturned edges of his lids. Just out of the lamplight, his eyes sank deep in his face. 

“There is a sort of poetry in that.”

Will sat on the edge of Hannibal’s heavy wooden desk before remembering too late the mention of Hannibal’s furniture-vandalizing patient. All the same, he remained perched on it, the sense of uneasy, heady frisson dimly returning. Unsure what he could attribute it to, he assumed it was his natural inclination towards transgression - here, the thrill of pushing the boundaries with a man whose entire life seemed balanced on a knife’s edge of restraint and taste.

Hannibal detached the page from his sketchbook and handed the still-unfinished sketch to Will, who received it delicately with only the pads of his fingertips at the corners of the sheet. The lamplight filtered dimly through, like sun through thick frosted glass, and gave the classical Greek lovers an unearthly glow. Will thought of medieval scenes on church windows at dusk, or of a flashlight beam illuminating the monstrous silhouettes of his sculptures through thin canvas tarps in a darkened studio.

“You are, of course, the seasoned artist here,” Hannibal said with a sense of finality, placing his drawing things back in their drawer. There was a clearly defined spot for each item: little grooves for the pencils, a shallow tray for the sketchpad. “If you find yourself needing respite from reading lines all evening, I hope you will indulge my curiosity about your own work.”

Will barely paused to parse the oblique request. More and more he was becoming accustomed to Hannibal’s habit of displacing requests like this, making it more palatable for the receiver to assent. 

He held out a hand, palm up. Without missing a beat, Hannibal placed his tablet in it.

“It might still be cached somewhere on the college site,” he explained, Googling himself and the name of his art school. “Or my old portfolio that got archived.” 

If the air around Hannibal’s glowing desk had been heavy before, it was even heavier now, suffused with a strained, humming energy. Will waited, stomach in knots, watching Hannibal in profile for any change to suggest alarm, or that he was starting to see Will in an altered, suspicious light. But he only scrolled, expression blank, and Will saw reflections of image grids scrolling past in his eyes. Will knew what was flying past on the screen. Wraiths frozen mid-scream, headless creatures, a bony wendigo. 

He moved to stand behind Hannibal’s chair and peer at the tablet over his shoulder. Hannibal had paused on a studio image of a clear resin dome with curious scraps suspended inside: hyperrealistic models of eyes and capillaries and bone fragments, and segments of shiny-slick tubules that weren’t anything in particular but looked decidedly biological in origin. 

“ _Kholodets_ ,” said Hannibal finally.

He got it. He knew what it was. Amazed, Will only blinked. 

“A Ukrainian dish largely composed of aspic, acting as a three-dimensional canvas in which one may stage a scene. Tell me about your scene, Will.”

“I, uh.” He had never been asked to explain this one before. Not even after it earned him the fewest points of any part of his senior portfolio. “Thought of it one morning right after waking up. The feeling of going to sleep knowing you’ll be surrounded by ugly things. Suspended. Trapped in another state with them floating all around you. I don’t know. I was just a student. It wasn’t as good in execution.”

“How was it received?”

“I barely passed the final portfolio assignment. Tried therapy for a while. That semester I figured out I couldn’t just talk to any psychiatrist about what was kicking around my head. Everyone thought I was weird.”

“I’m much weirder than you will ever be,” said Hannibal. “It’s fine to be weird.”

This was a very different reaction - especially coming from a psychiatrist - than what Will was accustomed to. His smile of assuredness faded into one of confusion - and one that Hannibal, preoccupied with the remaining contents of Will’s portfolio - didn’t see.

\- - -

  
_Excerpt from Vogue Living, 30 June 2013. “Keeping Up with the Komedas.”_

_[...] At 62, the Komeda matriarch has no plans to slow down. With two Komeda family reality show spinoffs in the pipeline at E! and a line of luxury home decor in the works, she keeps an iCalendar as busy as daughter Kimberly’s._  
_The decor range, set to debut in the fall, is a labor of love inspired in large part by longtime friend Hannibal Lecter, a well-known arbiter of taste whose influence has touched LACMA and even the MoMA in New York, as well as fashion and design collections by figures as widely varied as Alexander McQueen and Philippe Starck._  
_“His home in France is criminally beautiful,” says Komeda. “So sparsely decorated, but what you do see out on a countertop is so special. A stag sculpture. A suit of samurai armor. A garden sprouting from a wall. A bundle of antlers on a console table. I wanted my range to include pieces you don’t normally see in the Bergdorf home department - to make some of Hannibal’s world of strange and lovely objets d’art accessible to everyone.”_  
_When asked about Lecter’s famous residence in Beverly Hills, Komeda purses her lips coyly and playfully. “That home has always been a work in progress,” she muses. “He’s not as fond of it as he is of the apartment in Paris. But there are some exciting developments, I think, that will change that. For one, I don’t think he’s living alone there any longer.”_

_Us Weekly, 3 July 2013. Stars - They’re Just Like Us!_  
_Actor Will Graham shops for Fourth of July cookout supplies in Beverly Hills with rumored boyfriend Dr. Hannibal Lecter. And he’s a gentleman! Will carries both bags and leaves his sweetie’s hands free._  
_[Photo: Will, unshaven, in a plain white tee and jeans, glowers at the camera. Hannibal walks next to him with neutral expression, keys in hand. Image is cropped in the shape of a heart.]_

_E! Online, 5 July 2013. Benedict Cumberbatch grabs lunch with Hollywood friends_  
_Benedict Cumberbatch was photographed dining at Katsuya Friday afternoon with up-and-coming actor Will Graham and celebrity psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter. The Brit sensation, who is on this side of the pond for Star Trek press commitments, has worked with Hannibal before on Vanity Fair editorials. Hannibal and Will have been romantically linked since May, however it has not been confirmed if the pair are romantically involved. But if sharing circles of friends is any indication, be on the lookout for an announcement soon! Click through for photos._  
_[Pictured: Benedict sitting across from Will and Hannibal, eating on a sunny terrace, all wearing shades and casual clothing. Will appears not to be speaking in most photos, the conversation taking place largely between the others.]_

_Perez Hilton, 8 July 2013. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter know shit from Shinola!_  
_Everyone’s favorite hush-hush boyfriends were spotted out in the Arts District on Sunday, where the two grabbed cappuccinos at a cafe and appeared to talk watches. Hannibal showed Will his crazy-cool A Lange and Sohne timepiece, even letting Will try it on. Afterwards the pair stopped in the Shinola store on Third and left with a little something for Will. And look at all that wrist touching going on, seriously - do they think they’re fooling anyone? Is there anyone left in Hollywood who doesn’t think these two are bumping uglies?_

\- - -

Returning to set after time away was always a difficult transition for Will, but this time, it was doubly so. He crashed hard coming off a contented high from an usually peaceful weekend, and with his migraines flaring up again, he found himself being short with anyone unfortunate enough to cross paths with him the first week back. Hannibal showing up to bring packed lunches every afternoon didn’t help, especially when it made some of the crew members exchange odd looks.

Like a tiny personal stormcloud, his foul mood followed him out to the parking lot one night after an especially frustrating day of physically challenging fight sequence shoots. Exhausted and sore in so many places that his entire body glowed with pain, Will carelessly brushed past a colleague to get to his car and was surprised when the man immediately rounded on him, face contorted in a snarl. 

“Did you just slap my ass?” he demanded, and Will actually laughed out loud.

“It was probably my bag,” he said, but the other guy wasn’t having it.

Insulted by Will’s flippant reaction, he closed in and jabbed one hairy, ringed finger in the center of Will’s chest - painfully. Vaguely Will recognized him as one of the sound guys - Andrew or Drew or similar, and often seen frowning like thunder off to one side. He already smelled a little like beer, as though he and his work buddies had been drinking on set.

“It’s not enough you types sign contracts for millions and get your dicks sucked by the press for sucking dick yourselves? Just leave me alone. Leave me alone and let me do my fucking job without bringing that gay bullshit to my set.”

Will had never been on the receiving end of this type of rant before. But even so, as a new target, he found he had no shortage of replies. 

He smacked the man’s hand aside. “Have you _seen_ my boyfriend?” he drawled, unable to stop himself, and knowing he was irreparably digging himself into a hole. Guess he was really committing to the act now. “I have better taste than to hit on you.” Then, remembering the million dollar contract bit: “By the way, I drive a fucking Volvo.”

Will climbed into his car and peeled away so fast that the crew member was left still standing by his SUV, the beginnings of an aborted comeback plastered plainly across his face. 

The thing to do, then, seemed obvious: he drove to Hannibal’s uninvited, where he complained at length about the parking lot run-in with sound guy Andrew, and spent a therapeutic few minutes watching Hannibal make two cups of tea from a blend of dried dark shreds. Some of them looked like chiles. They gave the tea a smoky tone that was as soothing to sip as it was to breathe. 

“It’s like campfire in a cup,” said Will. He spotted two more white tablets that had been left on the counter for him, and swallowed them with a mouthful of tea. 

After he’d gotten his rant off his chest, it was Hannibal who seemed more troubled. He had gone very still, which for Hannibal was tantamount to throwing a tantrum on the floor.

But all he said was, “I’m afraid your colleague has been unspeakably rude.” 

The night ended with a brief line reading: Hannibal on the couch, standing in for the chief of Scotland Yard with script in hand and legs crossed, and Will animatedly pacing the living room rug running a hand through tangled curls and trying to land on the right inflection for his act two monologue. On the doorstep, Hannibal suggested he try a technique called a mind palace, and Will drove into the night picturing what such a space would look like. His old studio came to mind first - cavernous, cold, with pointed elements and repurposed rebar scattered around like bones in an overturned graveyard. Gorgeously, morbidly, it fit.

\- - -

The studio was well lit this time - sterile, clean. No sound but the buzzing of fluorescent lights overhead and the fluttering of pinned up sketches under the blast of air conditioning. He felt - rather than knew - that he must have had a long and productive session. Both ankles throbbed from hours spent standing in the same position, and rivulets of sweat ran down both temples, down his neck, and into the collar of his button down shirt. 

Both sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Both hands working on something warm and slick at the bottom of a long and trough-like steel farmhouse sink. Both forearms coated in slick dark blood and both wrists vanishing into the exposed gut of a graying torso attached to a familiar face, furious even in death.

Will sat up in bed so quickly that his head swam and sparks of light and color danced around the room before him. His face was hot and his hair dripped in his face, but the sweat that had soaked his t-shirt translucent was ice cold. Passing both shaking hands over his face, he swung both feet to the floor and stopped dead before he could rise and start the shower. Then his stomach gave a sharp lurch. His feet - cut and bruised and starting to scab over in places - were caked with dirt and bits of grass and what looked like dried blood. He had been somewhere. He didn’t know where.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-framed from S01E07 "Sorbet"   
> \- Mrs. Komeda  
> \- Andrew Caldwell
> 
> Re-framed from S01E08 "Fromage"  
> \- "too broken to date" 
> 
> Re-framed from S01E12 "Relevés"   
> \- "I was curious what would happen"
> 
> Re-framed from S02E08 "Su-Zakana"   
> \- idk, there's something but I can't remember
> 
> Re-framed from S02E12 "Tome Wan"  
> \- Mason & his feet on Hannibal's couch  
> \- kholodets  
> \- drawing of Achilles


	7. They are the hunters, we are the foxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a workplace disaster. the press closes in. isolation escalates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse my typos.
> 
> Canon sampled: S01E07 “Sorbet,” S01E12 “Relevés,” S01E13 “Savoureux,” S02E02 “Sakizuke,” S02E04 “Takiawase,” S02E11 “Ko No Mono”

_Just Jared, 10 July 2013. **Will Graham** took a break from sound stage filming to walk his newly adopted golden retriever mix whose name has yet to be released. The actor kept it polished-casual in a henley under a blazer, lately looking more and more like rumored boyfriend **Hannibal Lecter** , an LA social fixture - whom he later joined at BLD restaurant on Beverly Blvd for a charcuterie snack. _

__

_MORE PHOTOS INSIDE_

_Posted in: Will Graham, walking, dog, out and about_

****

\- - -

Beverly Katz was on her way.

She had boarded Will’s dogs, packed her favorite denim cutoffs, and invested in a huge pair of Gucci sunglasses for a weeklong visit to the west coast. 

At the moment, she was sealed in a metal tube with nearly two hundred other people, circling the valley and about to descend. One of these planes, Will thought, sitting in a cell phone lot with Winston and intently watching the sky, was hers. Could be that one. Or that one. Nah, it was definitely _that_ one. 

He’d even downloaded her airline app to get flight status updates sent directly to his phone. No idea what had possessed him to do such a thing - he had never done it for his own flights. Yet here he was, scratching Winston behind the ears and pointlessly showing the dog Beverly’s plane symbol on a map every few minutes.

“You know something’s up, huh, buddy?” he’d murmur. “You’re gonna meet someone.”

Winston wagged his tail so hard that Will could hear it thump-thump-thump against the passenger seat.

Will needed this. He was always glad hear from or see Beverly, but this time felt different. For starters, he was quickly becoming alienated from everyone at work, and Beverly’s familiar presence could be rehabilitative. Sound guy Andrew Caldwell hadn’t shown up on set for two days, and one morning Will arrived fresh from the hair and makeup trailer to find a gaggle of cast and crew talking about the missing persons report one of them had filed. 

Everyone had a different theory about Caldwell’s disappearance: costume assistant Jimmy Price, who was in charge of dressing Will each morning, thought he’d finally gone out of town to track down his estranged DJ brother in Vegas; stunt trainer Beth LeBeau was less charitable and was sure he was just passed out drunk on a bench somewhere. 

Will, still pre-coffee, post-migraine and not feeling his best, mumbled, “We’ll miss him.” 

The group went quiet and half a dozen faces turned to peer at him strangely. 

“He’s MIA, not dead,” the director said slowly. “Why would you say that?”

It had just slipped out automatically. It was a reflex. Wasn’t that the kind of thing acquaintances and colleagues said about missing people? Apparently not.

He needed Beverly. He needed her reassurance that he was just odd, not pathological. He needed her shoulder punches and tough love. And he needed her to get acquainted with his L.A. life and meet Hannibal Lecter. 

On that last account, he was unjustifiably nervous. He didn’t know how much Beverly had kept up with his press coverage lately, nor did he know how well she would take to all the changes he’d borne over the past few months: the new apartment with its fancy TV, the new dog, the new tan, all the avocado he now consumed on a near-daily basis...and the closest thing to another best friend he’d ever made in his life. 

What if she didn’t hit it off with Hannibal? Will regretted being rather tight-lipped about his interactions with Hannibal whenever Beverly asked. Suppose his silence had just raised her expectations and heightened the anticipation. Suppose she met him, shook hands with him, and declared him utterly pretentious (which, to be fair, would be an accurate assessment). 

But also - why the ever-loving fuck did he care so much? It wasn’t like he was introducing Hannibal to the man’s future in-laws. 

Will’s phone dinged twice before that train of thought could become any more mortifying.

From Beverly:

**_> > hey loser  
>> freshly deplaned_ **

Dutifully Will circled the airport and pulled up outside baggage claim just in time to see Beverly - messy-haired and grinning - stroll through a pair of automatic doors in baggy sweats and wearing a massive pair of rose gold toned headphones around her neck. 

“You look completely L.A. already,” Will observed as she threw her suitcase in the backseat and buckled herself in next to him. 

Winston went berserk and Beverly pulled him into her lap, momentarily burying her face in his golden coat and letting him lick her hands and arms.

“And you look - holy fuck, are you _tan_?” Beverly demanded when she was finished cooing at the dog. “I didn’t know you could get this color. Is it fake?”

“Haven’t gone completely Hollywood yet.”

On the way to Will’s condo they stopped for green smoothies at Urth Caffe (“until now I’d only read about these things in US Weekly,” said his passenger). Beverly chattered excitedly the entire way, bringing Will up to speed on the album she was writing, a horrible date she’d had the week before, and a DIY art project that ended with a trip to the emergency room. She ticked off a mandatory list of destinations for the upcoming week, too: In-N-Out, Rodeo Drive, Universal, LACMA. The touristy essentials.

Will groaned when they rounded the last corner home and his unit appeared at the end of the road. A gleaming black Bentley sat in the driveway. 

Beverly, who had started to yawn dramatically over the last few miles, was suddenly wide-eyed and alert.

“Is that who I think it is?” she cried, opening the passenger door and flinging herself out of it before the Volvo even stopped moving. “And you gave him a key?” Then she actually waggled her damn eyebrows. 

“I’m regretting it now.”

“Sounds like this fling is actually real, Graham. Despite what you say.”

Drawn by the noise of slamming car doors and Beverly’s cackles, Hannibal Lecter opened the door with a dishtowel and wet mug in hand, as though he had been interrupted mid-chore. How utterly and pointedly domestic. Will wasn’t convinced it hadn’t been on purpose. Hannibal’s introverted streak had a mildly and amusingly possessive dimension to it.

“Welcome back,” he said to Will, stepping forward to fucking give Will a kiss on the cheek. 

That hadn’t been part of the script. That hadn’t been part of any script. Will jerked back, half a confused, uncomfortable smile frozen on his face.

“Please,” Hannibal said to Beverly, making room in the foyer for them all. 

Winston bolted straight for the kitchen, seduced by the smell of cheese and grilled chicken. Then there was a round of introductions - smooth and gracious on Hannibal’s part, loud and curious on Beverly’s part - and they followed Winston’s progress into Will’s tiny kitchen for an afternoon snack of grilled paninis and a veggie medley, which they set up together, all three awkwardly maneuvering around each other in the small space. 

While Beverly searched each unfamiliar cabinet for cups and Will set silverware on the table, Hannibal plated food at the countertop and looked oddly too large for the room, bumping into Beverly with pan and spatula in either hand. She laughed, looked flustered, pushed her hair behind both ears, and gently guided Hannibal out of her way and towards the table. Her eyes lingered on Hannibal’s back even as he moved away from her, and Beverly returned to her quest for cups with the traces of a grin still on her face. 

“Top left cabinet above the sink,” he said to Beverly, who didn’t react. So he said it again, more loudly the second time, and Beverly mouthed “ _he’s so hot_ ” at Will before she made for the correct cabinet and filled three glasses.

Will watched in amused wonder at Beverly’s reaction to Hannibal. Hannibal was attractive, sure - it wasn’t like Will hadn’t noticed. He had eyes in his face after all. But seeing the effects of it on someone else was illuminating, to say the least. And it made him look once or twice over at Hannibal at the table, as he set a sandwich-laden plate before each chair. Not, of course, for any reason other than curiosity to see if he could make himself see what Beverly did.

Long legs in slim trousers. Strong forearms, tanner than Will’s. A straight-backed bearing, powerful shoulders. Aristocratic, if you wanted to put it that way. And all those angles.

When Will came back to himself, Beverly and Hannibal were seated and mid-conversation about Will’s latest film work.

“Freud used psychoanalysis to delve into the subconscious mind and reveal a patient’s true intentions,” Hannibal was saying. “Occasionally that is also how Will and I approach his role as Jack the Ripper as we run through his lines.”

“What were Jack the Ripper’s intentions?”

Hannibal smiled. “Only by going deep beneath the skin will you understand the nature of his psychology.” 

Almost pointedly he pierced the top of his panini with a sharp blade and sliced it nearly in half. It split under his efforts with an audible, savory crack.

Then things fell quiet - Beverly seemed content merely to watch Hannibal at first, as was her habit with new people. Eventually she switched on the TV in the other room and set the volume low, desperate to add a bit of noise and life. The local news were on. Censored images of yet another copycat murder inspired by last month’s girl in the field were flashing across the screen, one by one. Will felt, rather than heard, what they were saying. _Hollywood Ripper. Hollywood Ripper sets off chain reaction killings._

It was Beverly who broke the silence. “You were a surgeon, right?” she asked bluntly, without context or fanfare. 

Will winced. Now Hannibal knew he had been telling friends about him in some capacity. The two met eyes briefly before Will ducked his head.

“I was a surgeon and a doctor,” Hannibal replied mildly.

“What’s the distinction?”

Anxiously, Will glanced between the two, wondering how Hannibal would respond to Beverly’s brusque style of questioning. 

“A surgeon can stand to look at a mutilated body. But a doctor can’t stand to see a life wasted.”

Hannibal’s eyes were fixed on the news as he spoke. The images scrolling past were blurred and blocky but the bruised, pallid tones of dead flesh and the brown crust of old blood were clear.

Beverly looked over her shoulder to mouth “ _and so weird_ ” at Will before wiping the incredulous look off her face.

\- - -

Just as Will had quietly made Hannibal’s house into a second home during the extended Fourth of July weekend, Hannibal began lingering around Will’s condo for the duration of Beverly’s visit. It became a common occurrence for Will to return home from set and find his two guests softly conversing by lamplight, Beverly curled up on the couch and Hannibal cross-legged in Will’s swiveling office chair.

Hannibal was dressed down for these sessions - one day he wore black jeans. There was often tea involved. They always changed the subject to something mundane as Will approached, which confirmed Will’s suspicions that they generally just talked about him. 

It made sense. They didn’t have a lot in common, Beverly was here only temporarily, and he trusted Beverly anyway - there was a difference between being talked about by strangers and being talked about by a friend he’d lived with for years. And she humored him when he asked.

“You haven’t told him a lot about the art days, have you,” she noted one night, and it was just that. A statement of fact. No upward, questioning inflection - she knew the answer. Knew that he would lie to keep those interactions largely private.

Will shook his head. 

“There should remain some mystery to my life outside the arrangement.” 

It came out in a sardonic drawl. They had been Hannibal’s words once. Beverly paused in flipping through her Netflix account offerings on the BeoVision and looked at Will strangely. 

“You sound like him,” she said. 

It was truer than she knew.

“Well, he’s very curious,” Beverly continued, selecting a Tim Burton movie from the early 2000s and leaving it on silent, with subtitles flashing beneath. 

Will turned cautiously in his seat, recognizing that as a cue.

“At first it was about the art stuff. How you worked, what inspired you, how people saw you then. What pieces made you proud. And then some of it was more personal: what you were like as a roommate, ‘what’s the deal with all the dogs,’ stuff like that.”

“He said ‘what’s the deal’?”

“That was my embellishment,” she admitted. “But the paraphrasing stands. Look. He’s a little weird. Like uncomfortably so.” Her face said even worse.

This was surprising. Will found Hannibal likeable enough. It had never occurred to him that someone outside himself - someone who spent more time around people and was a little more attuned to social convention - might be so thoroughly put off. 

“He’s nice in his way,” he said, a little too defensively. “Hospitable. Just eccentric.”

“I don’t think Hannibal is good for you. Your relationship could be destructive. You have to admit, with your history, you need to be around people who balance you out a little more. Not people who...” she gestured vaguely at the empty space in front of her, “wear a person suit and don’t get you the help you need when you’re stressed at work.”

“You mean: like you did. You want me to be friends with people who are more like you.”

Beverly let out a groan of frustration into a throw pillow. 

“No,” she sighed with mock patience when she emerged from its depths. “Can you get over yourself? That’s not what I meant at all. Excuse me for thinking you shouldn’t hang out with someone who’s so into helping you channel Jack the Ripper with psychiatric techniques or some shit. He’s told me a lot about those. Don’t you remember how your sculpture career went?”

She had crossed a line, and she knew it. Throughout the exchange, Will’s face had been frozen in a lopsided, disbelieving half-smile, as though laughing at some private joke. Up until now their talk had been ridiculous, but now something awful fell clanking into place and Will’s expression went flat.

“He helps me.” He heard his own voice as though from very far away, or as though underwater. “He cooks and lets me stay over and brings me painkillers. He helps me. He does. And you know he saved someone’s life the other week, right? It was all over the news.”

“The stings are hiding needle marks,” said Beverly heavily, like she was quoting something.

“Stings?” Will echoed, mystified.

“I was reading something on my Facebook newsfeed the other day. Some guy was lobotomized by his acupuncturist and left to be stung nearly to death by a swarm of bees. They traced him back to her because the stings were hiding needle marks.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying: he’s camouflaged. He’s pretty, but talking to him is some uncanny valley shit. It’s like watching a mask move. Keep it professional, will you? He just seems like the kind of person you should keep at arm’s length.”

This hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped at all. Trust other people to ruin the one great friendship he’d managed to make in Los Angeles on his own. His dynamic with Hannibal worked. He was a counterbalance: a flawlessly mild and stable presence that anchored Will enough that he could walk out of his nightmares to safety if he wanted. Beverly wouldn’t understand. 

He whistled for Winston and met the dog at the door on the way out. Before shutting it behind him he paused.

“I’m pretty much alone in this city,” he said quietly. “Can you please...let me have this?” 

He nodded goodnight at Beverly without meeting her eyes. Then headed out.

\- - -

He and Winston took a very long walk. Most nights, Will held Winston back from pulling at his lead to inspect mailboxes and flower beds, hoping to train him out of the habit that his previous owners had apparently indulged. This time, Will obligingly stopped with him, letting him lovingly sniff every inch of the neighborhood and even chase a frog into some hedges.

Beverly was asleep by the time they returned home, wrapped in a blanket up to her shoulders on the foldout couch in the living room. That was just as well. He didn’t know how to pick up the conversation from earlier. He had the vaguest sense that he owed her an apology - she was just looking out for him, after all - but something in his nature, the defensive spirit that resented the interference of others, held it back. 

He watched the rise and fall of Beverly’s shoulders for a moment, turned down the covers a little to keep her from overheating in the hot So-Cal night, and went to get ready for bed himself.

“My name is Will Graham. It’s eleven PM, and I’m in Los Angeles, California,” he murmured to himself in the bathroom mirror. 

It was a grounding technique he had picked up from Hannibal. He was building the habit of repeating it to himself after waking from nightmares, or during the crest of a migraine, or on the way home from a day of filming. So far it didn’t seem like it was making a quantifiable difference. But he liked the idea of it anyway. It was like “checking in.” It forced him to take account of himself and his surroundings always.

Brush, swish, spit.

Then the sudden blaring of his cell phone on the bed made him jump in the doorway of his ensuite and nearly slip and crack his head on the jamb. 

Will closed his fist over the device and pushed it into the covers to muffle its screaming. When he had collected himself, he answered in hushed tones so his voice wouldn’t carry down the stairs to Beverly. 

The aspirated tones of Hannibal Lecter’s Baltic-inflected English came softly through the speaker. 

“Will. It has occurred to me it may be a more comfortable arrangement for both Beverly and yourself if I extended to her the offer of one of my guest rooms. Of course you are welcome to stay in one as well; I wouldn’t want to separate you from an old friend on her visit.”

The signal was muddy, lending his voice the added distinction like that of a vintage radio host. There was a brief rustling in the background, as though Hannibal were speaking from bed, as well. The thought made Will smile.

“Nah,” he replied, forgetting his irritation at Beverly. “There’s space here.”

In the short pause that followed, Will could practically see Hannibal’s minute head tilt of consideration. 

“You do not have a guest room, if I recall.”

Will had to bite his own lip to temper his widening grin. Hannibal was - nah, he couldn’t be. Was he actually fishing for details on their sleeping arrangement?

“It’s fine. She’s on the couch downstairs.”

“All the more reason for both of you to stay in Beverly Hills with me.”

“Hannibal. Why are you doing this?” He hoped Hannibal could hear the smile in his voice.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”

Will climbed under the covers and thought of the bottle of nice wine he’d gone to great pains to select and acquire and transport to Hannibal’s kitchen one night. He thought of Hannibal’s footsteps down a bright echoing hallway, thought of turning around to see the doctor apron-clad and wiping his hands on a washcloth. Light eyebrows slightly raised. Expectant. _Will_ , Hannibal had murmured gently, _why are you here?_

Instead Will said, “Nevermind. Good night.”

\- - -

He could not make eye contact because the eyes were sliding out of place, dripping down her cheekbones to dangle sideways at her chin. He followed their movement intently. Somewhere behind her was a watery _plink-plink-plink._ He didn’t dare look over her shoulder for its source.

“I’m saying,” boomed the scrambled face, “he’s camouflaged.”

They sat face to face and cross-legged in a dry field at night, the air smelling of scorched grass and dusty earth. 

His mouth was so dry and gummy that it took considerable effort to unstick his lips and speak.

“Uncanny valley,” said Will.

The dangling eyes blinked hard, and the movement shook them free from where they had clung to her jawline. They fell in her lap and she took one in each hand. The fleshy, shadowed grooves where they should have sat warped and collapsed, and her nose and mouth began to turn and drift. She made no effort to steady them. 

Beverly’s disordered face said, “Arm’s length.”

Arm’s length. The length of her forearm became cleanly detached and landed in the dead, flattened grass between them. She began falling apart, bits landing with dull arhythmic thumps. Will unfolded himself, heart hammering and rising in his throat, and approached the pile of pieces to retrieve the arm’s length. Clasped in its rapidly cooling palm was his own cell phone. 

It was dialing Hannibal Lecter’s number.

\- - -

  
_15 July 2013, Perez Hilton. “TROUBLE IN HANNIGRAM PARADISE?”_  
  
 _Yesterday actor Will Graham was spotted emerging from Urth Caffe in West Hollywood with a gorgeous mystery woman. The pair quickly ducked into his Volvo and sped away. Trouble in paradise so soon for Will and rumored bae Hannibal Lecter? Guess we’ll never see them in matching tuxedos at a premiere! Looks like Will moves on FAST. But if you’re reading this, Hannibal, give ME a call!_

\- - -

Frowning, Will closed the browser window on his phone and took two ibuprofen with his bagel and orange juice (fresh squeezed, recently delivered from Casa Lecter in a glass decanter). Chilton meant no harm in sending him these alerts, of course, but they were more than Will could handle in the morning before coffee.

“I’m mystery woman!” Beverly called from behind the bathroom door.

“Are you using your phone on the toilet?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

Will grinned into his juice. Beverly had been monumentally tolerant of him that morning, folding him into a hug in the kitchen at the first sight of his sleepy, sheepish, repentant face. Without saying anything, and without being told, she seemed to understand what his headspace had been last night.

And of course she did - they had done this before. It was what made her the longest-lasting of all the roommates he’d ever had in New York. Preternatural patience - she and Hannibal had that, at least, in common, even if she didn’t quite get his other eccentricities.

Even so, the atmosphere was strange and blurry. Whenever Will glanced over at Beverly, hunched over the morning paper sudoku, he remembered a flash of a jumbled Picasso face, a pile of limbs, and above all a curious sense of failure and wrenching guilt. Like it had been his fault. Like he had reached out and pulled the features from her head himself. Like he had exposed her to something terrible.

He avoided her eyes all morning, which she almost certainly took for remorse over their near-quarrel. He didn’t correct that impression.

In good spirits, Beverly drove him to the studio in his Volvo after breakfast, dropped him off, and took the car to The Grove. He approached the trailers at a jog, running slightly late, and slowed when he saw they would have company on set today. There were four police cars - twice the norm - parked in the main drive, not even in the lot, like they were there on important business other than routine patrols. 

The trailer lot was empty save for a single intern, who directed Will to the general offices. Will took off in their direction, clutching his messenger bag to his side, feeling his heart rise again in his throat as though the patrol cars had been meant for him. 

In the lobby, chairs and couches had been rearranged to form a kind of mock waiting room, and craft services had bulked up the Keurig offerings and set out a bleak-looking continental breakfast along one wall. Cast and crew members sat and talked quietly in sealed-off clusters, apparently apprehensive about whatever was going on behind the the door of multipurpose room 1B. Will’s stomach dropped when he saw the haunted looks on their faces. And the mirrored dark figures of Crawford and Chilton, seated together on a loveseat, both bent over their phones and texting up an urgent storm. He knew those expressions. This was damage control of the worst sort.

Will lowered himself into a folding chair as Jimmy Price brought him coffee in a styrofoam cup. 

“They found Andrew Caldwell over the weekend,” the costume assistant explained hoarsely. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “LAPD is here to ask everyone a few questions.”

Off Will’s look, Price swallowed, closed his eyes hard, and added, “He was sitting across from himself in the backseat of an old Maserati at Runyon Canyon. Body ripped clean in half. No leads and police are desperate.”

Will fumbled his coffee. Far behind Price, level with the man’s elbow, Will caught the eye of Jack Crawford, peering curiously and blankly at him. 

Pale and suddenly dizzy, Will pushed his coffee back into Price’s hands and stood so quickly his head spun and the chair screeched against the linoleum floor. Nearly two dozen heads snapped up at the noise to watch him go.

“Will,” said Crawford, rising to his feet across the room, but Will was already back out the double doors and throwing up into the hedges, hands clamped over both ears as though to hold his head together through a white-hot, skull-splitting pain.

\- - -

  
_ 18 July 2013, Los Angeles Daily News _  
  
_On July 14, a pair of joggers in Runyon Canyon found a 2003 Maserati illegally parked off-road near a trail around 9 AM and alerted authorities to the presence of a mutilated body in the sedan’s backseat. The body was identified as that of Andrew Caldwell, 40, a contracted MGM sound engineering employee whose latest project was the studio’s Ripper trilogy. LAPD declined a request for comment on the ongoing investigation; however, a spokesperson noted that FBI involvement is expected to escalate regarding a possibly connected string of grisly killings in the greater Los Angeles area. See CANYON, section A2._

\- - - 

_19 July 2013, TattleTime  
CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER! We all know that life often imitates art, even if sometimes it’s horrible to admit. And today, I’m horrified to wonder if actor Will Graham - who has famously come under fire before for being a little too intense with his method acting - has taken his art one step too far. _

_Last weekend, the body of Graham’s Ripper production colleague was found at Runyon Canyon, sliced in half and stuffed into the backseat of a car. That’s not many degrees of separation, is it? I’m not saying Graham’s suspicious but - okay, I’m saying he’s suspicious. Here’s what I know:_  
_1\. Graham - again, a method actor! - is currently playing a serial killer known for ripping his victims’ bodies apart._  
_2\. Graham has a history of being unstable - this spring he made waves when he was found wandering barefoot in the Hills, and again when he had some kind of episode and passed out at a party._  
_3\. Graham is currently traipsing all over Hollywood in the company of a famous psychiatrist_  
_4\. An anonymous tipoff (signed by “Animal_House” and posted on July 18), tells me Graham called animal control to his house only weeks ago and reported hearing noises in his wall - but surprise surprise! There was nothing there._  
_5\. Police found journaling materials citing Will Graham’s college artwork and film work as inspiration while investigating a UC Davis student arrested last month for impaling a classmate on a fence._  
_6\. I scoured the internet for that college artwork and found a disturbing medley of body-horror woodwork, metalwork, and charcoal drawings archived under Graham’s name on several sites. (See my photo gallery for screenshots.)_

_I can’t be the only one who finds all this business extremely telling. Not convinced something’s up with Will Graham just yet? Look no farther than his Instagram profile. Don’t bother searching for a blue checkmark; he’s not the sort to have his people chase down Verified status. But his account is plenty distinctive anyway: it’s the one where you’ll find pictures ranging from perfectly normal (dogs, hiking spots) to totally strange (roadkill, creepy-looking food, and sketches of things that look like they’ve walked out of a nightmare way beyond what you or I would EVER have)._

\- - -

There could be no formal funeral and burial because the police investigation made things complicated. While the bisected body of Andrew Caldwell lay somewhere in a federally-controlled facility, colleagues and what few friends and family he had gathered at a nondescript church in Burbank for a modest memorial service.

Fearing negative press, Jack Crawford and several studio executives attended, paid for the service, and commissioned a display of white lilies to be delivered to the venue. Will heard about the flowers and funding secondhand from Chilton, who had in the end awkwardly asked Will not to come along for the event.

“I did my research,” Chilton had said uncomfortably over the phone that morning. “They say killers often return to the scene of the crime or show up at the funerals of their victims. Not saying you’re a killer, kid,” he added quickly upon hearing Will groan. “But with that TattleTale - or TattleTime or whatever - with that article going viral on social media, we can’t afford to have you near this.” 

For a full nine minutes after that phone call, Will had sat on the edge of his bed, needlessly clad in a black suit, and stared at the wall in front of him.

Then he had numbly gone downstairs to find Beverly making some indeterminate casserole-like creation out of the contents of his fridge.

She froze when she saw him lingering in the doorway, unsure of what to say to him. He watched her fingers nervously twist up a dishcloth before she steeled herself, tossed it away, and stepped towards him.

“If there’s anything you’re not telling me,” she said, and Will bristled.

He began to defend himself but she held up a silencing palm.

“Not like that. I don’t mean that. But I read the Freddie Lounds article.”

“Freddie Lounds?” Head bowed, he found himself avoiding Beverly’s eyes again, like he’d been doing for almost the entirety of her visit. 

“She’s TattleTime. She mentioned episodes and wandering. And something about hearing animal noises?” 

Fuck Brian Zeller. So he had gone to the press after all.

“Will, if you’re experiencing what you did in college, you need to tell me. Or if you’re not comfortable, let someone else help.”

He had someone else. But that someone else was Hannibal Lecter, whom she’d already made clear she didn’t especially like.

Beverly read his mind.

“Not him,” she warned, sliding her beige and lumpy casserole into the preheated oven. “I told you, if he’s encouraged doing deep dives into killer minds, he’s not the person to help you get through this.” 

Then she stood back, peering into the oven at her moderately misshapen culinary creation. 

Will glanced at the packaging left out on the countertop: boxes of macaroni, empty tuna tins, a half-used ziplock bag of shredded cheese and a can of peas and carrots.

“The Beverly Katz starving college student special,” he noted, thinking back.

“Yep. Hope it turns out edible - it’s been a while. Thought I’d make you something you can store and reheat. Seeing as this is my last day here and I’m pretty sure you just eat cereal bars when left to your own devices. And speaking of devices. You gotta shut that Instagram down. Or post normal things, at least until all this blows over.”

He shook his head hard.

“I didn’t make any of those posts.”

“It’s your account, same one I’ve followed since you made it. Will, if you’re losing time, too-”

“Not like that. I know I didn’t.”

He was about to explain that he would never have public posted photos of his own artwork when his eyes landed on his cell phone, buzzing away on the kitchen countertop where he had set it down moments before.

**2 New Messages from Hannibal Lecter  
SLIDE TO VIEW**

Now that made sense. They would need to have a conversation about this.

\- - - 

Filming was canceled that night. In fact, it was suspended for a week while corporate powers larger than even Jack Crawford navigated the public relations nightmare that was Andrew Caldwell’s horrific murder. Word was that one of the C-level executives had cut short a trip to Turks and Caicos to be back in Los Angeles for the early days of the investigation, and he was livid enough to turn Will into a Maserati murder tableau himself. As though Will had anything to do with it personally.

“Stay home for a while,” Chilton instructed during a brief house visit. He wore skintight workout gear and kept his hands to himself as though fearful the general unstylish disorder in Will’s condo might infect him with something awful. 

“I can’t have you seen around town for a bit, especially after Caldwell _and_ last month's UC Davis shit.” 

“That one has no connection to me, Chilton.”

“In his mind there was one, and that’s enough to damn you reputation-wise. A normal guy just doesn’t get thanked in serial killer statements, okay? If you need anything, tell Dr. Lecter and he’ll drop by.” At the despondent look on Will’s face, he added, “Don’t worry, kid. No one actually thinks you did it.”

“Right,” Will shot back, glowering. “That completely explains why I’m under house arrest.”

“Think of it as being for your protection.”

With that, Chilton looked pointedly at Will’s aggressively beige decor color scheme, raised his eyebrows at his client, and departed. Will heard the dull rumble of Chilton’s Ferrari engine as he pulled away. 

Protective house arrest, then. But that was just as well. He was lucky that he had Beverly still, for one more night before she’d board a flight for LaGuardia. Eschewing Chilton’s advice that he call Hannibal for all his needs, Will negotiated a Thai takeout feast with Beverly instead, who went out in the Volvo to bring back enough coconut curry and pad kee mao to feed a small regiment. They put on a Netflix comedy, mixed whiskey cocktails in Will’s old porcelain mugs, and sat on the living room floor to eat. 

When the sky darkened, they moved to a pair of classic 90s-style plastic lawn chairs on the barely-there patio and watched Winston try to catch fireflies in his mouth. The normal sounds of summer had returned with the departure of last month’s stifling heat: insects chirping, a sprinkler a few yards over, the dribbling of a basketball and children’s voices in someone’s driveway. He and Beverly threw two person shaped shadows across the tiny lawn, their bodies carving black cutouts in the kitchen light pouring through the sliding back door.

“What’s it like, stardom?” Beverly asked, draining the last of her third cocktail. 

Will shrugged. “I wouldn’t call myself a star.”

“You have your own tag on TMZ. Three high school classmates messaged me to get your autograph for them this week. I’d say that’s star crap.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I hated them sophomore year.”

There was a pause as Will watched Winston nearly succeed in his mission, then lose track of his glimmering target.

“Lonely,” he admitted. “Stressful. Like everything I have belongs to someone else, like everything I say comes from someone else. I don’t feel like myself.”

He spoke ploddingly, deliberately, as though exhausted. His face was hot.

“Heavy stuff.”

Will made a gruff noise of agreement. “I feel like I’m seeing a life flashing before my eyes that’s not my own. I’m missing pieces of myself. And watching others try to fit their guesswork back in the holes.” He forced out: “Andrew Caldwell.”

“I’ve read a lot about him these past couple of days,” said Beverly, in a distant, that’s-too-bad voice usually reserved for expressing sympathy for acquaintances. “Found in a Maserati, the way he was? Whoever did kill him knew him. Understood him.”

The crickets had gone silent. Will registered the change only after Winston froze in an alert stance, ears back, and let out a deep, rumbling growl from the back of his throat. A shadow fell across Beverly’s, enveloping hers entirely in a tall dark mass. She whipped around in her seat so fast the plastic chair nearly toppled over.

Silhouetted against fluorescent kitchen glare was a rigid man mountain, broad shouldered and tapering after the point where his hand rested on the handle of the screen door. Eyes still adjusting to the light, Will squinted at the shape and guessed, “Hannibal?”

“So often you open your mouth and I hear Will Graham’s words come out, Miss Katz,” said a clipped voice to Will’s guest. 

The screen door slid aside, a backyard light flicked on, and Winston ceased his growling, bounding up to the visitor and sitting back on his hind legs, hoping for a treat or a pat. Will’s spare keys in one hand and a new neon orange ball in the other, Hannibal bent at the knee to scratch the dog behind one ear and gave the toy a toss. Winston took off after it, fear forgotten.

To Beverly’s credit, she too regained her composure with lightning speed. 

“Will and I have a tried-and-true mutual support system,” she explained, barely managing to keep a level of defensiveness out of her tone. “It’s as old as his art career.”

Hannibal looked at her blankly, then at Will, and back again. “I’m happy to hear that. Will needs a champion now more than ever.”

“He has you, doesn’t he?” 

Beverly half-grinned with a touch of the sardonic, and in it Will saw the origins of his own lopsided smile as though for the very first time. So did Hannibal. That much was communicated in the split-second their eyes met and Will felt suddenly self-conscious of how much he and Beverly had spoken of Hannibal that week. Like the man knew about it all, and disapproved. Will didn’t know why having two best friends who didn’t get along should result in so many vague, intimate feelings of guilt, as though he’d been caught conducting an affair.

Abruptly Beverly pushed her chair back into place and shattered the uneasy tension that had connected the three of them in an electric triangle.

“I’m going to bed,” she announced. 

She trudged into the building with Winston at her heels and shut herself in the powder room for a very long time. Will could hear the sound of running water and furious brushing from the living room. There he paused and turned to Hannibal as if to speak, thought better of it, and led him out onto the porch in view of the Bentley parked in the driveway. 

Distantly, light pollution formed a halo of purple light above palm trees and darkened homes. Hannibal stood in the drive close to his car and looked silently at Will, who felt compelled to draw closer. Finally he settled into a casual lean against the Bentley’s driver-side door.

“I think I’ve been wandering,” he began vaguely, thinking of finding his feet scratched and bloody one morning with no memory of how they’d gotten that way. 

“Awake, I hope, and with purpose. Though something tells me not.”

Will hesitated. But this was his doctor. He lowered his voice in case Beverly had emerged from her bathroom rituals and might hear them.

“The hallucinations, the loss of time, sleepwalking. Running a temperature all week. Could that have all just been part of my stress and migraines?”

“It’s possible.”

“What else is possible?”

“Fevers can be symptoms of dementia, and dementia can be a symptom of many things happening in your body or mind.”

“Does the studio know? Does Chilton know?” 

If they did, it could spell disaster for his contract and for the film. TattleTime would have a field day. And so would the rest of the world.

Hannibal demurred, but not before taking Will’s face and then forehead into his bare hands, as though testing his temperature through skin-on-skin touch. Being gently handled like this, Will felt his nerves quiet, and he unconsciously leaned into the touch. 

It occurred to him they hadn’t touched before, not like this, not really. Not in the hot, quiet dark with no sound but their own breathing, and certainly not palm to cheek. Will felt his face heat up and hoped Hannibal would chalk it up to a mild fever.

“Shouldn’t I go to a hospital or something?” wondered Will, but understanding that if he did, his cover as a normal, functioning human being was blown. It would be as good as marching out onto the Walk of Fame and declaring himself Andrew Caldwell’s slayer.

“Not until we know for certain. What we must do now is monitor you and encourage your recovery.”

The doctor squeezed Will’s shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. 

“You wouldn’t want Beverly Katz to worry you’re dwelling on anything morbid in what’s to be a time of recovery.”

Will nodded, suddenly very sleepy and wishing he could fold himself into the plush gray bed in Hannibal Lecter’s guest room instead of his own.

“Don’t tell Bev, yeah,” he slurred, and heard his voice as if from a great distance. “Weird that it’s the only thing that feels normal.”

“The violence?”

“The structure of understanding the violence. That feels normal. But not to people like Bev.”

Barely two feet away from Will’s own, Hannibal’s gimlet eyes danced in the growing dark, twin pinpoints of light from a streetlamp reflected in them. He thought of how they had sat across from each other in a bedroom like therapist and patient, thought of Jack Crawford’s dark, leery look at the studio offices. 

Another thought occurred.

“Hannibal, I’m alone a lot.”

Once, alone had not meant lonely, but while article after article poured into his cloud of consciousness and he caught questioning glance after glance from people drifting by, even Beverly, aloneness had started taking on another stifling character and enemy edge entirely. He had colleagues and neighbors, not friends, and felt the force of others’ speculation and distrust as though diving into a flock of stinging insects. How he wanted to scatter them with a bright and singular violence. 

“Do not fear your isolation - not when yours is newly becoming understandable to you,” said Hannibal, the planes of his face barely moving. 

Will had the curious, thrilling notion he was speaking to a ventriloquist’s dummy, and he had yet to meet the puppeteer. 

“You are alone, Will, because you are unique.”

Hannibal took a single step closer, head angled as was his habit, the faintest trace of oil and sweat cutting a gash of shine across the sharp mound of his cheekbone. Rather than light on a surface, it was like light shining through - Hannibal Lecter’s body could not contain everything he was. It was escaping into the summer night and Will was the only one who could see it.

In a hoarse low voice he admitted what he had told no one else: “I don’t know where I was the night police said Andrew Caldwell died.”

His temples throbbed in time with his heartbeat, rabbit-fast. Hannibal’s eyes began dripping down his face, and Will had the absurd idea he should catch them before they hit the pavement like raindrops. He raised both clammy hands to either side of the doctor’s jawline, feeling untethered and liquid and not quite real. Arm’s length, Beverly had said. The skin beneath his fingertips was a living velvet.

A pause while Hannibal considered. His features swirled and slid down one side. At Will’s touch he seemed to have become larger than life. He had expanded like smoke or mist to fill the atmosphere all around.

“Use it,” Hannibal urged. “Become the killer.”

“Caldwell’s killer, or my character the killer?”

“Are they so different? You must, like they did, understand that blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel their radiance.”

Will’s eyes fell on the gash of brightness across Hannibal’s face. It had not moved even as the rest had swirled away into the night.

“Just as the source of light is burning,” he murmured.

The final word was spoken into Hannibal’s open mouth as their lips touched and glided lightly against each other. There was a hand at the back of his neck and a hand at his shoulder that gripped tighter and tighter as Will slipped out of himself. Wandering.

\- - -

He woke alone in his room, still wearing yesterday’s jeans and tee, with cold sweat forming a uniform sheen all over his body. He lifted shaking fingertips to touch his bottom lip, as warm and tender as his head felt. For an uneasy few beats he was unsure if his fevered mind had merely invented Hannibal’s late night visit - the conversation against the car, the half-light from the valley, the hot silence and the brush of skin on skin. Then his eyes fell on the nightstand, where a glass of water stood half-full, and several white tablets sat in a small, shallow dish.

\- - -

Text conversation between H. Lecter and W. Graham, 8:04 to 8:15 AM:

_> > also: there are photos on my IG. who’s been posting to my IG_  
__**> > I have.**  
_> > thought so. care to explain_  
_**> > After you turned your account information over, Chilton passed it on to me for management. He assured me you knew.**_  
_> > no. i do now_  
_> > how very Chilton_  
_**> > Does it bother you?**_  
_> > nah w/e. just don’t make me look too weird_  
_**> > I could never. **_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reframed from S01E07 “Sorbet”  
> \- "There should remain some mystery to my life"  
> \- Andrew Caldwell body
> 
> Reframed from S01E12 “Relevés”  
> \- "Fevers can be symptoms of dementia" etc.
> 
> Reframed from S01E13 “Savoureux”  
> \- "alone because you are unique"
> 
> Reframed from S02E02 “Sakizuke”  
> \- Hannibal deliberately bumping into Beverly  
> \- "person suit"  
> \- "structure of understanding the violence"
> 
> Reframed from S02E04 “Takiawase”  
> \- "subconscious mind" & psychoanalysis; the killer's nature  
> \- "you were a surgeon, right?"  
> \- beehive reference  
> \- "you open your mouth and I hear Will Graham’s words come out"  
> \- "Will needs a champion"
> 
> Reframed from S02E11 “Ko No Mono”  
> \- "I don't think Hannibal is good for you"  
> \- "the source of light is burning"


	8. Fragile little flame, it could burn out (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Negotiating an art deal under stress.

He had kissed Hannibal Lecter. And under the strangest fucking circumstances, too: standing by Hannibal’s Bentley at midnight while they waxed poetic about a colleague’s murderer in the dark. 

Nothing had prepared Will for a situation like that. 

Equally true: nothing had prepared Will for the ease with which life resumed after that. 

For an entire morning he lived and relived those heady moments in his mind, composing exonerating explanation after explanation that he could offer Hannibal the next time they met face-to-face. _I was tipsy_ , he could say. _I had a lot of whiskey with dinner._ Or maybe _I had a fever and wasn’t feeling like myself._ It was practically Chilton’s PR motto, after all, that almost any behavior could be explained away to others as a flu symptom. The bright, clear truth, however, was that it had made sense to Will in the spaces between impulse and thought. It was the thing to do. He wasn’t even sure who had leaned in first. The distance between their faces had simply contracted and made way for such an inevitability. 

There was nothing to question.

It was the thing to do. 

He drove Beverly to LAX without telling her about the previous night’s development. The news would worry and upset her, so he folded the knowledge away and tucked it like a secret letter into a pocket near his heart. She sensed no change in him other than a general improved mood, and gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder, then a bona fide hug, which he guiltily returned, when they emerged from traffic to arrive at her terminal.

As she pulled away, he caught a whiff of passion fruit behind her ear and at her neck. She smelled exactly the way she had years ago when Will had nearly asked her out in the middle of a breakdown. It had been a clutch for balance - even he could tell at the time. Briefly he wondered if he had merely clutched for balance again with Hannibal this time, and if under normal circumstances they would have remained merely friendly. 

“Arm’s length,” Beverly insisted once again, shaking a finger at Will. “Gonna give you three commandments: take care of yourself, protect yourself, and don’t Google yourself.”

“I get regular press blasts from Chilton.”

“Then tell him you’ve changed your phone number and give him mine.”

That wasn’t a bad idea, actually. Will was at first touched by her protective instinct, and then quietly ashamed that he planned on turning tail and driving straight to Hannibal’s after this. But something in the pit of his stomach was already fluttering at the idea - a strange mixture of excitement and trepidation, like he knew he was a moth drawing too close to a flame. 

Instead of saying goodbye, he unthinkingly kissed the air near Beverly’s cheek. She gave him a funny sidelong look (“Ooooookay Hannibal,” correctly guessing where he’d picked it up from), retrieved her suitcase from the trunk, waved and was gone.

\- - -

Shortly before noon, Will found Hannibal in the courtyard of his palatial home, watering the greenery using a stoneware vessel with a tapered spout. He was barefoot but otherwise appeared to be fresh from the gym: he wore skinny joggers with a workout tee and had draped a small towel over one shoulder. His bearing was almost perfectly still - like a lion in tall grass - until he heard Will approach, white pebbles shifting and crunching underfoot.

“This courtyard has the same square footage as my entire condo,” Will said, halting a few steps away and fighting to keep a straight face. Domestic Hannibal was always bizarrely amusing. Something about the easy harmonization of courtly and cozy in a single figure.

When Hannibal looked up, the only suggestion of a smile on his face was the way the corners of both eyes crinkled. 

“As a successful actor,” he said lightly, “I’m sure you are comfortably compensated. I wonder, then, at your choice of surroundings.”

Will put a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Ouch. In other words, ‘Why is your place so shitty, Will. Why do you live in a cereal box, Will.’”

The crinkling deepened. 

“Language,” Hannibal warned, but his tone was warm. 

Will thought of making another joke, but an earnestness in Hannibal’s gaze pulled the truth out of him instead. 

“I like my surroundings to be plain. I like an optimal amount of disorder. And believe it or not, over the course of my I life, I’ve acquired an uncommon taste for formica countertops.”

“Another way in which you are utterly unique,” Hannibal teased, and Will laughed openly, dropping his gaze to the ground and running a hand through his curls. This new familiarity made him fidgety - but a tingly, welcome fidgety, not the kind he felt sitting in Chilton’s office or a doctor’s waiting room.

“It’s what I grew up with.”

“You’ve mentioned fixing boats with your father during an itinerant childhood.”

“Yeah. We never had anything fancy. So I still surround myself with simple things.”

“I grew up in Europe amidst the gathered clutter of a centuries-old estate. My home here is stark and blank for distance and a change of pace.”

Well that - that was news. Will stared, brows knitted together in stupefaction. “Estate?” he echoed dumbly.

They quietly stood opposite each other, processing the changed character of how it felt to share histories with one another. Will wasn’t sure how or where to progress from here. What kinds of questions were kosher? How much could he expect Hannibal to divulge, and how much did Will even care to share, himself? How would he toe the line between pursuing this tenuous thread genuinely, and carrying out Chilton’s plan? There was also the not-so-small matter of Will’s evolving life, specifically his rapidly dissolving privacy.

A legion of potential disasters and complications swirled in Will’s head. If he focused on any single one for more than a heartbeat, he became dizzy.

Hannibal finished his watering, set the can down on the base of a towering abstract sculpture, and motioned for Will to follow him indoors. “A subject for another day,” he deflected, while Will trailed behind through hallways he had not seen before, with vaulted, windowed ceilings and mounted baroque art prints as well as abstract originals on canvas. 

Will enjoyed the meeting of extremes in these halls: the convergence suggested a depth and duality in the private gallery’s curator. He wondered, then, what Hannibal saw when he first visited Will’s home and found IKEA furnishings and bare walls and ancient odds and ends, like restored clocks and dog figurines, brought home years ago after his dad died.

They walked for so long in silence (with Will gazing, now agape, at sculptures on stands and looping video installations of smoke in half-darkness) that Will wondered if Hannibal had forgotten he was following along. Feeling too awkward to speak up, he kept at it. 

It wasn't until Hannibal reached the end of the maze and held open a paned glass door for him that Will finally felt at ease. Hannibal meant for him to be here. That in itself was a dizzying thought - to be invited to walk through the private home galleries of a man whose entire being screamed Restraint and Privacy. Then Will took stock of their surroundings, realized where they were, and was momentarily breathless.

This was the master suite. 

It was trimmed with the same fine linens, sleek modern furniture, and grayish neutrals as the guest room Will occasionally inhabited, but it dwarfed the other in sheer size. The main room was dominated by a low platform bed on a dais, flanked by two dramatic light fixtures. A set of Japanese swords dominated the space above the simple headboard. At the other end was an austere seating area, an echo of the living room that Will already knew so well, beyond the private gallery. The long side of the suite was comprised of a fully glass wall framed by a twin set of curtains pushed to either extreme end of the room, tumbling from sky-high ceilings to pool and trail on the floor like a set of bridal veils. The suite was flawlessly, sharply balanced, as was everything about its owner - poised on a knife’s edge.

Will had, he was quickly discovering with Hannibal, a thing about domestic spaces. He was so rarely invited behind closed doors to see them - few people were friendly enough with him to do that. It was unimaginable, his being here. He felt a rush of barely containable, inarticulable fondness and gratitude, standing there in the center of that bright intimate room. 

“A lot of art out there,” Will remarked dumbly, grasping at something familiar. “You collect.”

“Ardently. And I have been thinking,” said Hannibal, “of adding something to my collection.” He went to a set of dark panels and slid them aside to reveal an aggressively organized closet from which he pulled a fresh set of clothes.

“For a pop of color?” Will joked, gesturing at the monochromatic suite.

“In a manner of speaking. I hope you will permit me to purchase from you the wendigo sculpture you created in the final weeks of your art career.”

“I’m not so sure Beverly would sell to you. She thinks we’re too close already.”

Then Hannibal began to undress just beyond the doorway of the master bath with the unselfconscious, casual attitude of an athlete in a locker room. 

Too close indeed. Will made an uncomfortable noise of surprise and turned his back, facing into the bedroom. He hoped Hannibal wouldn’t see his ears glowing pink, but that hope was surely futile: those damn things stuck out from either side of Will’s head like satellite dishes. 

He was thinking so hard ( _Is this a signal? What does he want? Am I supposed to go in there, too?_ ) he nearly missed the sound of Hannibal trying to speak over the steady stream of the shower. 

“Miss Katz is not your keeper, Will. You are. The only condition we need fulfill is that you be willing to sell.”

“In theory. But she’s the one who put it in storage; you’d have to go through her to get it packed and shipped.”

“Franklyn could broker the process.”

It would work. Beverly had never met Franklyn, and she’d never heard his name. The chances she’d connect Franklyn with Hannibal were slim to none, since Franklyn technically worked for Chilton, and it took less than average empathy - to say nothing of Will’s empathy levels - to know that Franklyn would jump at the chance to do a favor for Dr. Lecter. 

The significance of such a purchase, though, gave Will pause. The wendigo, badly damaged during a psychiatric episode Will had suffered years ago in New York, was a monument that neatly marked the end of his sculpture-making and the forging of a new identity through a slow, difficult recovery process involving multiple failed counseling programs, courses of medication, and even physical therapy for damaged and repaired tendons in one hand. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the dovetailing of Old Will Graham with New Will Graham, especially under Hannibal’s influence, which Will was finding increasingly difficult not to buckle under.

It was best that he sleep on the decision. He really should. It was a big thing to do, to go digging up one’s distant, traumatic past at the request of a current...ah, friend? Partner? Whatever the hell Hannibal was now. 

He listened to the hiss of the shower and the louder, irregular splash patterns that sounded whenever Hannibal moved under the stream. He imagined the doctor running both hands through slick hair, teasing lather out of it to run in rivulets to the floor. Will couldn’t concentrate like this - couldn’t sidestep his way into buying himself more time. His head buzzed with indefinable anxieties. It seemed easier just to give up the wendigo then and there.

He hesitated, then wondered, “Why do you want that sculpture?” 

There was a beat as Hannibal considered, and lightheaded, Will listened some more to the damn rush of the shower, a nervous flutter rising in his chest.

“Two considerations: firstly, that I have a rare Will Graham original to enhance my private collection, and secondly, although more importantly, that there be a piece of you here to fill some of the empty space that can feel cavernous at times.”

Will blinked.

“Are you saying you’re lonely?” he decoded, trying to keep a smile out of his voice.

The shower stopped. There was a light patter of bare, wet feet on hard flooring, then the sound of Hannibal methodically drying himself with a towel. He hadn’t heard the question, it seemed. Will decided not to push it.

Back still turned, Will said, “I’ll have Chilton and Franklyn work it out. Just - if I could ask something...one more thing?”

“Anything,” came the quick reply over the rustling of fabric as Hannibal dressed.

“Put the sculpture somewhere private - somewhere it won’t stick out.” _Somewhere I can’t see it,_ Will almost added.

Hannibal emerged from the ensuite in pinstriped pants and a crisp button-down. He was already mid-Windsor knot. His hair, still wet, was slicked back from his brow exactly as Hair & Makeup styled Will’s when he became Jack the Ripper in the prep trailer. He met Will in the center of the room and, unthinkingly, Will reached out to finish the knot, then smoothed the wine-red column of silk down Hannibal’s chest - even though the tie ran perfectly over the placket already.

“Certainly,” Hannibal said.

\- - -

_25 July 2013. Just Jared. “Hannigram Gourmet Outing”_

_On the heels of a public scandal involving LAPD and FBI murder investigations, actor **Will Graham** steps out incognito in a cap and shades to do some grocery shopping at Bristol Farms. He was made somewhat less inconspicuous by partner **Hannibal Lecter** , who filled Will’s cart with olive oil, organic produce, and artisanal bread. (MORE PHOTOS)_

\- - -

_27 July 2013. Various Facebook posts._

_Maddy [last name redacted]: **ok is it just me or is it a little weird that #willgraham and his people never really said anything about the #murder stuff**_

_Armaan [last name redacted] shared Tattle’Time’s link “CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER.” **uhhhhh what???**_

_Brandon [last name redacted] shared Just Jared’s link “Hannigram Gourmet Outing”: **why are we rewarding all the weird shit he’s said and done with attention? just disgusting and so typical, people DIED but ofc press is still all over these assholes like it’s just another day in the neighborhood.** _

_Sammy [last name redacted] shared Just Jared’s link “Hannigram Gourmet Outing”: **these two are #goals, they are cute AF #hannigram #willgraham**_

_Rachel [last name redacted]: **can everyone just calm down? if Hollywood stars were all murderers they’d never get away with it. there’s eyes on them all the time. think, people. #jfc #willgraham**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal u lil shit, impairing people's judgment to get what you want


	9. Interlude: location list

**INSP. FOR CHILTON'S BUILDING** | ch. 1  


**INSP. FOR WILL'S** | ch. 1+  


**HOTEL DU CAP-EDEN-ROC** | ch. 2  
  
  
Boulevard J. F. Kennedy, 06601 Antibes, France

**JOAN'S ON THIRD** | ch. 3  
  
8350 W 3rd St, Los Angeles, CA 90048

**COMMISSARY AT THE LINE** | ch.3  
  
3515 Wilshire Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90010

**FAITH AND FLOWER** | ch. 4  
  
705 W 9th St, Los Angeles, CA 90015

**BEVERLY HILLS INSP. FOR CASA LECTER** | ch. 4+  


**KATSUYA** | ch. 6  
  
6300 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90028

**ARTS DISTRICT** | ch. 6  


**URTH CAFFE** | ch. 7  
  
8565 Melrose Ave, West Hollywood, CA 90069

**the view from RUNYON CANYON** | ch. 7  


**BRENTWOOD INSP. FOR CASA CHILTON | ch. 10**  


**ELEVEN MADISON PARK** | ch. 11  


**11 HOWARD** | ch. 11  
  
  
11 Howard St, New York, NY 10013

**MONTAGE BEVERLY HILLS** | ch. 11  
  
225 N Canon Dr, Beverly Hills, CA 90210

**URBAN LIGHT, LACMA** | ch. 11  
  
5905 Wilshire Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90036

**NOBU MALIBU** | ch. 13  
  
22706 Pacific Coast Highway, Malibu, CA 90265

**INSP. FOR THE MALIBU BEACH HOUSE** | ch. 13  
  


**INSP. FOR HANNIBAL'S STUDY** | ch. 14  
  


**IN-N-OUT** | ch. 23  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of these images are mine! they were pulled mainly from Eater LA & official websites of the locations listed. specific sources listed if you need one~


	10. Fragile little flame, it could burn out (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New furniture, an invite, and a desperately needed alibi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E03 "Potage", S03S06 “Dolce”, S03E12 "The Number of the Beast is 666."
> 
> (All typos are my b - let me know if anything glaring sticks out!)

There was a lot of white noise at the edges of Will’s life these days. He drifted here and there in a fog of wary and defensive self-consciousness, buffeted by swirling accusations flooding his hashtag on all platforms. In the meantime, he continued with principal photography for _Ripper_ under Hannibal’s unconventional tutelage. 

The worse the public opinion, the more intent and energized Hannibal seemed to become. “Use it,” he instructed frequently, echoing his own advice the night Will had impulsively closed the distance between them in the driveway of his condo. Then he would put a hand to the side of Will’s head and bring their foreheads so close they would nearly touch. “Remember: blood and breath, Will. Use it.”

So Will did. And the Ripper materialized day after day with frightening intensity on set, a six-foot column wrapped in a greatcoat and composure, with chaos and cruel curiosity pressurized at its icy core. It parted and scattered clusters of cast and crew simply by gliding through their ranks. Any whispers of suspicion that followed in its wake were the vulgar squeals of boorish pigs that needed to be taught better manners. This Ripper was game for the task.

The first time Will truly melded with his character and improvised on set, the director nearly cried. (Jack Crawford hovered nearby, chin in one hand and brow creased.) 

“We’re gonna have to redesign the entrail props so you can do that better in a retake,” Matt Brown had said once he had finished pacing in frantic, small circles with both hands in the air. “Definitely want to use that. Might even have Bedelia write in some new scenes with it, or turn it into a plot point. Fucking _genius._ Where’d you get the idea the Ripper would _eat_ intestines right out of a fresh body?”

Honestly? That morning at breakfast, when Hannibal had served blood-hued sausage atop a pool of thick sauce.

Evidently, in a way, bad press was unexpectedly helpful, professionally. But it was a nuisance privately, like it was deranging something at the formerly immobile foundations of Will’s identity. Will couldn’t put a finger on why that was (after all, he was not under investigation, and journalists, he felt, were largely showing themselves to be tabloid opportunists) until a conversation one evening over foie gras and figs eaten on the patio before the crackling fire pit.

“He and I have begun to blur,” Will had said vaguely, staring ahead at the darkening horizon and the twinkle of L.A. lights. Spun-sugar clouds crawled across an expanse of spangled deep blue. 

“The Ripper?” Hannibal offered, correctly.

“But the press and the public make becoming him...complicated. I feel as though what they write becomes true - about him, about me. And the truth that I experienced pales into insignificance. As though my truth never happened.” 

Will was now spending longer and longer periods of recovery in his costume trailer at the end of each daily shooting block, splashing cold water on his face and leaning so close to the mirror that he couldn’t see the Ripper in himself anymore. 

“The often performative nature of storytelling,” noted Hannibal, and Will was reminded of Chilton’s machinations as well, and of the manipulation of Komeda and others, previously, to tell a story they had all wanted known. Somehow the story had unfurled into a great ugly thing out of their control. It barely resembled Chilton’s bulletin board now.

Will inclined his head by way of minute acknowledgment. “And even as my free will dissipates, I continue to feel and act as though I have it. My head feels...crowded. If I were investigated, Chilton couldn’t protect me. I do worry about the investigation, about Freddie Lounds, about an alibi - you know, I don’t have one. In everyone’s eyes, I must have killed Andrew Caldwell.”

There was a quiet shuffle as Hannibal moved in his seat to look at Will, who felt his companion’s gaze heat the side of his face. Then a hand softly fell upon his forearm. 

“It need not bother you, Will. The worm that destroys you is the temptation to validate and agree with your critics against your best interests.”

Hannibal rose to retrieve a bottle of wine from the kitchen while Will remained in his seat, leg crossed at the knee - a mannerism he couldn’t remember having before. It had to have come from Hannibal. Will and the Ripper character were not the only two figures beginning to blur. 

A stemmed glass and bottle appeared to one side, and Will watched an arc of deep, cool burgundy splash into place like a controlled waterfall of SFX blood. He saw himself on set, moving as though in a trance, covered in sticky dark blood from fingertip to elbow, improvising and retooling lines from the script when the inspiration struck. He saw the look on Jimmy Price’s face in his trailer when the flow of ad-libbing couldn’t be staunched - like Price had just seen Will for the first time and it had troubled him. 

He swallowed hard. “Whoever did kill Caldwell...if he’s also behind most of the other killings on the news...every crime of his feels like one I am guilty of. Not just Caldwell, but every murder stretching backward and forward in time.”

Hannibal stilled and peered at Will curiously - or as curiously as his controlled mien could telegraph.

“You said ‘backward,’” he pointed out. “What makes you think there were others, before?”

Will finished his wine in two long gulps. 

“Just a feeling. Intelligent psychopath like him? He’s had practice.” His head swam but his voice was level. Then: “About that night. You know the one.”

Hannibal nodded - just barely - as if to say, _go on_. 

“I’m sorry that I uh, that I.” It was a halting, awkward beginning. He braced himself and started over. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you. It was inappropriate. We’re not, uh. I have a history. I’ve done that kind of thing before where I feel, you know, unstable, and...”

Risking a sideways glance at Hannibal, he found the doctor had turned away and was entirely focused on nursing his wineglass. It wasn’t possible that Will had, well, hurt his feelings, was it? Somehow, as a concept, that didn’t compute. Hannibal was unflappable. And yet the question that now hung between them was almost physically uncomfortable. 

“I understand,” Hannibal murmured gently at last. 

“I need to figure out other parts of my life before...uh. Before.” 

The two lapsed into silence.

\- - -

Far from giving any outward appearance of hurt or offense, Hannibal continued purring along with fond energy, as though determined to reassert normalcy. He never spoke of the fevered kiss again, or of the conversation by the fire, but Will knew somehow that it was being held back out of respect for Will’s comfort. Hannibal was allowing Will to take the reins on that one, and to broach it only when and if he wanted.

Before long Will felt Hannibal should be permitted more room in his own life and space, the same way Hannibal had let Will into his. It was the least Will could do, considering...everything.

At the end of the month, he began inviting the doctor down to his Beverlywood condo for their coaching sessions instead. 

The early sessions marked the beginning of the end of a number of Will’s worldly possessions - fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it (and depending on the presence or absence of taste).

“What is this?” Hannibal said, tone perfectly neutral. He had discovered, in a corner of Will’s living room, a body-sized circular metal frame with neon orange cords stretched tight as a drum across it. 

Will turned. “That is...a bungee chair,” he replied, mid-shuffle with his mail. 

“Why do you have it?”

“Fifteen bucks at Target, and the dog can’t shed on it.”

Hannibal bit his lip and regarded the thing unblinkingly in a way that suggested the chair would not be long for this world. When at last he spoke, it was with the air of someone aware of insult and trying delicately to spin it into opportunity. “Fancy a drive to Melrose? We can take your car.” And he looked up, and looked so eager and open, and Will couldn’t say no to those raised eyebrows.

In the evening, the two returned to Will’s condo two grand poorer and with a walnut-and-tweed Milo Baughman recliner to show for the effort. (“Two thousand? It’s on sale,” Hannibal had said, and produced a matte black credit card before Will could protest.) Once it was set up, Will retreated to the pantry for two tumblers of whiskey and stood at the border between living room and kitchen to size up the new addition.

“It doesn’t match the rest,” Will said, flatly stating the obvious but not really minding.

“It does with your television set,” Hannibal assured him, relieving him of the second glass. “And it will be a minor undertaking to replace the rest.”

“No way. We stop here. This was more than enough, more - more than generous. I’m good, Hannibal. Really.” Will had long since learned to stop parroting empty thank yous to Hannibal Lecter - the occasions to say it cropped up so frequently that it had become meaningless to do so. And besides, Hannibal barely registered the thanks each time. It seemed a natural mode of existence for him to quietly anticipate all the gestures and maneuvers that would make his guests and companions feel well taken care of.

The Baughman chair saw no use that evening. Hannibal seemed reluctant to be the first to use his gift to Will, and Will was sure as hell not going to be the first to plop his ass in that pricey damn thing. So they sat together on the old creaky couch instead, gazing across the living room at the new recliner like a pair of art lovers before a Botticelli. 

“A wedding invitation arrived addressed to both of us yesterday,” Hannibal said suddenly, and Will did a double take. “From Margot Verger and Alana Bloom. It came with a note from Margot. She wasn’t sure where you were living these days and believed the invitation would find its way to you if she mailed it to me.”

“Good call,” said Will absently, already picturing it. 

God, what an image that would be. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham rocking up to some glitzy Beverly Hills wedding in, what, velvet evening jackets? It was more than plausible. Margot was glamorous and extra enough to design a dress code around sparkles and velvet. Perez Hilton could finally get that matching formalwear photo he’d yearned for on his blog on more than one occasion. 

Of course Hannibal would dance with everyone at the reception, especially the brides, and Will would use the wrong fork for every dish, call at least three executives by the wrong name, and spend most of the night standing by the open bar for comfort. Bonus points if he ripped his pants seven minutes into the ceremony and had to change into something completely inappropriate, like the running shorts he kept in a gym bag in the trunk of his Volvo.

On the other hand: this would be the first time he’d ever showed up at a Real People party with an actual date, and not only that, his date would be Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal fucking Lecter, who would know everyone’s name already, who would gracefully extricate Will from conversations if Will needed a breather, and who would know how to dance and what fork to use and how to pronounce any unreasonably fancy dish on the menu. He thought of being seen with Hannibal, and of having whispered conversations at table six, and of raising champagne glasses together and laughing together in the backseat of a car on the way home. Undoing bowties together. Sinking into a couch and having a cup of tea. Making fun of the tabloid coverage together as the articles rolled out. 

“Would you, uh,” Will began carefully. “Do you want to go? Chilton would be glad,” he added hastily.

When Hannibal did not immediately reply and instead set his glass down on the coffee table with a sniff, Will’s earnest hope was extinguished. 

The doctor said something about a conference for research on schizophrenia in Boston, and were it not for the confident ease with which he said it, Will would have suspected he had made it up with Will’s aborted overtures of the other week in mind.

After a few awkward beats, Hannibal mildly asked after Will’s work instead: scenes shot, trailer gossip, any migraines, press annoyances, the usual. Will turned his emptied tumbler over and over in both hands, elbows on his knees. He was throat-tighteningly conscious of how close their thighs were on the couch and had sat forward for some space. 

“Nothing new,” he said at first, and then corrected himself. “Finished a behind-the-scenes featurette for the DVD. A short character documentary. Talking heads kind of setup with someone asking me about motive and MO and all that.”

“Has your killer’s mind become known to you?” Hannibal’s whiskey was mostly untouched.

“For a while I thought it was hate that propelled him. Then one day something Jack Crawford said made me realize it was...contempt. Not even anger. His victims are pigs to him. Deserving not his anger or his hate but his dispassionate distaste. Deserving humiliation. To be put in their place.”

Will drained the rest of Hannibal’s whiskey while Hannibal considered the profile.

“Have you felt contempt for anyone lately?”

Will shrugged. “No.” 

Plainly, the look on Hannibal’s face said: _that’s not true._

“Fine,” Will caved. He hadn’t wanted to say it - because it wasn’t kind, and in the hands of the wrong person, the admission could get him into serious trouble. But Hannibal had been nothing but helpful. “Andrew Caldwell. What he said to me the night he died...it got to me like nothing had done in years. I could hear the rush of my own blood in my ears. And sometimes on set I think - I think of how the Ripper would have humiliated him. Or the people who spread rumors that I had anything to do with...with what happened to him.

“The other day I had this idea,” Will continued, laughing bitterly. “This, uh, idea that the Ripper might even eat them. Both humiliating and elevating - taking them apart and transforming them into something better than they were in life. The director liked it so much he’s having Bedelia du Maurier rewrite chunks of the script.”

Hannibal looked up, and before Will could register the expression on the doctor’s face, he had risen cat-like to his feet and swept into the tiny kitchen, where he began rummaging around the cabinets and pantry for supplies.

“Something simple and sweet, I think,” he said by way of explanation.

Apparently something “simple” in Hannibal’s mind translated to full-on patisserie-style macarons, and Will spent the better part of the next half hour helping his guest whisk egg whites in a big steel bowl and pulsing plain almonds into a fine powder. 

As Hannibal began piping perfect rounds of light meringue batter onto a baking sheet, he seemed to reconsider a prior engagement.

“Perhaps the medical professionals of the greater Boston area will manage in my absence this year,” he said, double-checking the shape of each batter blob and sliding the tray into the oven. “I would hate to leave you on your own in such a minefield as a wedding ceremony can be.”

Will looked slyly at him. He paused in the mixing of a creamy fruit filling.

“How do you know du Maurier?” Will asked.

Hannibal made a noise of soft, distracted confusion.

“The screenwriter. You weren’t going to the wedding until you heard her name, like it reminded you of something.”

“I haven’t spoken to Bedelia du Maurier,” Hannibal demurred blandly, and Will dropped the subject. 

Later they assembled macarons together in silence, moving smoothly around each other in the cramped kitchen space with the habitual ease and coordination of a pair that had done this many times before - as though each had an unseeing sense of where the other would stand and pass.

\- - -

_ 30 July 2013. TattleTime. **WILL GRAHAM & HANNIBAL LECTER MOVING IN TOGETHER? ** _

_The actor and his all-but-confirmed boyfriend blew through a few swanky furniture stores on Melrose yesterday and went home to Beverlywood with a chair that - let’s be real - is definitely more Lecter’s taste than Graham’s. Graham, who wore oversized plaid until practically last week, would not have picked out a 2k designer stunner of a chair from Design Within Reach. At least not without heavy input from someone with heavy influence. We wonder if Lecter is sprucing up his BF’s space before calling it home himself? Pity to leave a $5 mil ultramodern domicile at the edge of Beverly Hills for an up-and-coming actor’s condo...even if said actor is delicious._

_Did I say delicious? I meant deadly. You thought this was going to be your run-of-the-mill celebrity article, didn’t you?_

_Now that I have your attention..._

_I meant what I said last month when I called out Will Graham and his handlers - something is rotten here. Not only was Will Graham the last person to see Andrew Caldwell alive (corroborated recently by an eyewitness who saw the two get into a brief, heated argument in a studio parking lot), the silence of Graham’s team is super suspicious. No statement. Not even a denial, nothing._

_Now, there could be a perfectly (or at least relatively) innocent explanation. Graham’s management might - in a gross maneuver only Hollywood would be capable of - want to encourage the connection between the actor and recent events for promotional purposes. Yeah, like a movie tie-in. Like a really twisted movie tie-in. (READ MORE AFTER THE LINK.)_

\- - -

Early August brought strange mornings - silent birds and still air, and sunrises that turned the sky a deep, rich orange. These mornings, Will was never sure until he saw a clock if he had slept until sunset, or if the day were just beginning. These mornings, Will would slide quietly out of bed, cross the room in three large, deliberate, and quiet steps, and peer out the window at the pool below, a stray leaf here and there floating on a luminous fiery surface. And then he would picture how Hannibal might look, doors away in the master suite, light and dark shadows thrown across his face by the alien sky filtering through the windows. 

And there were strange evenings, breathless, dry evenings when thunder shook the house but the heat went unrelieved by the coming of rain. On those evenings, the city was set on anxious edge, as if all Angelenos were waiting for something of supernal consequence to plummet to the earth from above. Nothing ever did. But Will watched the sky out of habit anyway, and wondered at the rainless lightning that streaked across the sky on occasion. Sometimes Hannibal joined him on the patio, and Will would steal glances at him, watching his face be illuminated by flashes of white.

On one such night, the blaring of Will’s phone interrupted a round of outdoor digestifs - Armagnac from France - and he nearly dropped his glass in surprise.

It was Chilton, breathless and livid. “Have you been reading my digests?” the agent demanded, and before Will could reply, he barrelled on: “We are fucked - we are honest-to-God quantifiably fucked, Will. Someone - some goddamn witness in the studio parking lot - whispered to the press that you might’ve been the last one to see Andrew Caldwell alive, and that there was a - a what, a confrontation? And you didn’t think to mention this to me? At any point?” 

His voice pitched higher with each question, but Will could find no space to interject, opening and closing his mouth uselessly. In his anger and distraction he had thought the parking lot empty that night, but of course someone had seen - it was a huge lot, with staffers coming and going at all times. 

Across the patio, Hannibal gazed coolly and quizzically back. 

“The lot’s been vandalized, too. One of the trailers has MURDERER on it in big red letters. I told the studio to bill me for it, but I’m sure they’re just one more bombshell away from recasting, contract be damned.”

“Christ,” Will breathed, lightheaded. 

Hannibal rose to his feet, as though he had guessed what Chilton would say on the phone next.

“You need to get your ass over here, Will,” Chilton insisted. “Brentwood in fifteen. I’m getting Jack Crawford and lawyers. We’re talking before the police descend on this.”

\- - -

Hannibal went too. At Will’s insistence, they took the Volvo, and Will suppressed the pain of embarrassment he felt at making Hannibal squeeze into the dated old car in all his Ferragamo finery. To his credit, he endured the ride with the same wordless serenity as always.

Will broke the speed limit the entire way, picturing the worst. If they were meeting at Chilton’s home instead of the office, it was a sure sign that Will’s management was nervous enough to conduct proceedings strictly off record: no surveillance tapes, no emails, no security on duty, no off chance they could run into curious junior staffers working late and eager for gossip fodder.

Somewhere in Chilton’s neighborhood he ran a stop sign in his distracted state and came to a too-sudden stop curbside in front of the agent’s address, a gated stucco building with a balcony over the front door and vines climbing the facade. An Escalade and a few BMWs already flanked Chilton’s Ferrari in the long drive. Images of glowering lawyers and grim executives clouded his mind’s eye as he approached the door with a puzzled Hannibal trailing behind. 

But they entered to find a small handful of bizarrely relaxed men and women piled into an eclectic set of patterned chairs, each one nursing a pink cocktail and chatting in pleasant, low tones with a neighbor.

Chilton, behind a heavy dark desk, perked up at the sight of the newcomers and pressed drinks into their hands, too. He was wearing a partly unbuttoned paisley shirt sporting half-evaporated pit stains, as though he had suffered some horrible shock but was now well on his way to a happily alcohol-fueled recovery. At his side, mixing drinks, was Franklyn Froideveaux, who positively beamed and waved.

Will shot a sideways glance at Hannibal and found that his expression had slid from bemused to amused seamlessly. 

“Chilton,” Will said in a warning tone, and the agent flapped both hands at him apologetically.

“I know, I know. Fortunately, things kinda sorted themselves out while you were on your way. By the way, your drive was _not_ fifteen minutes, we were waiting for ages.” 

Jack Crawford, still in full business dress at this time of night, had elected to have wine instead of a cosmo, and he passed a glowing tablet to Will, who received it in one clammy palm. 

It was a cluttered digital timetable that included, among other events, a late evening meeting with Hannibal the night of Will’s run-in with Caldwell in the lot at work. He swiped with a finger, and the next screen was what appeared to be a scan of a handwritten medical form dated the same night. 

“Frederick here jumped the gun a little when he called you,” said Crawford, and Chilton looked sheepish. “If he’d waited for the rest of us, he’d have known his own assistant already knew you were dining with Dr. Lecter that day. And afterwards, you were checked in overnight at his clinic for exhaustion.”

The hell he was. Crawford had surely strong-armed Chilton’s entire team into fabricating Will an alibi. These corporate asshats. On reflex Will opened his mouth to deny the material lighting up the tablet screen, but suppose he did? He had nothing else. His head swam, and his temples were beginning their customary drumbeat of dull pain, the typical precursor to one of his migraine attacks. 

He took an instinctive step back towards Hannibal, meaning to ask if he had any of those white tablets on hand, and was surprised when the doctor spoke first.

“That’s correct, Jack,” he said without inflection. “Mr. Graham began having severe headaches and showed signs of impaired movement. I brought him to my clinic for observation and he was discharged around ten in the morning the following day.”

Crawford met Hannibal’s eyes levelly. “That’s nearly fourteen hours accounted for.”

Hannibal made a tiny nod of agreement.

Then Crawford clapped a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder, causing his knees to buckle slightly. “Lucky you.” 

Dumbfounded, Will looked between the two men, unable to decide what had just happened. Either Crawford had, in his domineering, business-minded fashion, bullied Hannibal into being party to this. Or - and this was incredible - Hannibal had orchestrated this himself, deceiving them all, and Crawford was buying it because the alternative would be disastrous. 

Will had few recollections of the night Caldwell died, but the one connected memory that stood out coarse and bright was of swinging his feet from the bed the morning after and finding them scratched and bloody from an outdoor walk through rough terrain. Hannibal probably thought he was helping - that he was protecting Will in the absence of a real, ironclad alibi - but this took protection to an extreme that Will was unsure how to receive.

But none of the confusion and struggle could show on his face, leastways not while Crawford still watched him, stone-still, from only feet away. Will schooled his face into innocent blankness - the same impassive expression Hannibal had worn on the drive over - made his excuses, and headed for the car, knowing Hannibal would follow closely. 

“I hope you will forgive my interference,” Hannibal said as they set off and Chilton’s ivy-covered house shrank behind them. “I could not stand idly by, and I could not involve you in the precautions I took. I care about you, Will.” 

In his peripheral vision, Will saw Hannibal turn towards him, and felt a mild gaze on the side of his face for a few moments.

Will’s passenger said nothing else on the way back to Beverly Hills. By the time they returned to the great glass house, rising like an iceberg from the vast dark sea of the lawn, Will knew there had been no other way. And that Hannibal had taken on a great deal of personal risk to shield Will from what would otherwise have certainly been public crucifixion.

The little Volvo pulled up in the driveway and Will killed the engine. For a moment they sat in motionless silence. Finally, drowsy with relief, Will breathed, “Thank you.”

Hannibal’s eyes were very bright even in the half-dark. “Of course, Will,” he said simply.

\- - -

6 August 2013  
[Name redacted] Talent Management  
[Email redacted]  
[Web address redacted]

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

In response to unfounded tabloid claims erroneously linking our client to the tragic death of Andrew Caldwell, we are disclosing that our client, actor Will Graham, was undergoing treatment for exhaustion-related health issues at a clinic in West Hollywood on July 10. The treatment took place overnight, and Mr. Graham made a full recovery. 

Due to the personal nature of this information, our client previously elected not to provide a statement; however, in light of recent developments Mr. Graham has chosen to put his privacy aside for the peace of mind of his community.

Upon formal press inquiry, we are able to furnish Mr. Graham’s clinical forms and a physician’s statement with sensitive data redacted.

Our client and our team at [name redacted] extend our apologies to the public for confusion and pain endured during this crisis of public safety in our great city of Los Angeles. We would like to express our wholehearted support for the tireless work of the LAPD and the FBI to keep our neighborhoods safe.

\- - -

Voice mail from B. Katz to W. Graham, 3:23 PM.

“Hey, is everything okay? You didn’t tell me you had an emergency the week before I came over! Hope you’re feeling better these days. And that you’re still not Googling yourself, like I told you. Call me when you get a chance, loser. Miss your face.”

\- - -

Text conversation between F. Chilton and W. Graham, 9:20-9:47 PM.

**> > after what u put me thru, omg  
>> u owe me big time**

>> fair enough. what do you need 

**> > a public distraction  
** **> > we’re getting u a new haircut  
** **> > it’s gonna be swoopy and real cute**

>> o...k. sounds manageable

**> > oh i’m not done sweetie  
** **> > i booked u for a fragrance campaign shoot  
** **> > hope u like NY  
** **> > rly wish all of this had happened in june - then i could’ve just sent u to comic con  
** **> > kids love nerds these days  
** **> > anyway i’ve packed u some goodies for ur flight, and by goodies i mean hannibal and some non-ugly clothes for u**

>> uh sure. when’s my flight

**> > tmrw @ 10am, franklyn picking u up at 7:30**

>> what????

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reframed from S01E03 "Potage"  
> \- contempt line  
> \- MURDERER graffiti = CANNIBALS graffiti 
> 
> Reframed from S03S06 “Dolce”  
> \- "begun to blur"  
> \- free will discussion  
> \- "The worm that destroys you"  
> \- "backward and forward in time"  
> \- art lovers before a Botticelli reference
> 
> Reframed from S03E12 "The Number of the Beast is 666"  
> \- idk I can't remember but there's something


	11. Just grab my hand and don't ever drop it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A narrowing distance, an art project, and a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E03 “Potage”, S01E08 “Fromage”, S01E10 “Buffet Froid”, S02E05 “Mukozuke”, S02E07 “Yakimono”, S02E09 “Shiizakana”, S02E10 "Naka Choko", S02E11 “Ko No Mono”, S03E01 "Antipasto", S03E06 “Dolce”, S03E07 “Digestivo”, S03E13 “The Wrath of the Lamb” (i.e. what DIDN'T I pull lines from this time)
> 
> I have most definitely missed a few typos - my b. Most have been corrected as of 8/6 late night, EDT

_9 August 2013. GQ.COM, **“We’re Here for the Transformation of Will Graham”**  
Posted in: Celebrity Style_

_If stars are anything like us, they itch to change things up after stressful times, too. And change suits Will Graham, who stepped out yesterday in New York City following reports that he was the target of on-set vandalism triggered by unsubstantiated tabloid claims._

_Graham - formerly infamous for sporting ill-fitting plaids faded to various degrees - hit the SoHo streets en route to a photoshoot in a navy Saint Laurent corduroy shirt and Rag & Bone skinnies also favored by Brit rockers. We’re even loving the Dries van Noten sneakers trimmed with leather and suede. (Also freshly debuted was a new cut and style with plenty of body to round out the look.)_

_We think the serious streetwear upgrade has something to do with Graham’s celebrity psychiatrist beau Hannibal Lecter, who later joined him at Eleven Madison Park for dinner in a slim-cut Prada suit. Style maverick Lecter is one to watch, too: check out our archives for previous coverage of the impeccably dressed doctor at Milan fashion week and the Met Gala._

_Shop Graham’s threads below at MrPorter.com:_

_[Product link] [Product link] [Product link]_

\- - -

_8 August 2013. Daily Mail. **“Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter arrive separately at NYC hotel.”**_

_Fashion plates and inseparable pair Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter checked into boutique hotel 11 Howard in New York City yesterday, mere minutes apart. Separate arrivals are a common celeb move meant to throw onlookers off the trail of a budding relationship, but Graham and Lecter aren’t fooling anyone! Graham arrived with suspiciously too many suitcases for one man, and Lecter stepped out of his town car with only a toiletry bag in hand... (READ MORE)_

\- - -

Text conversation between B. Katz and W. Graham, 2:12 to 2:36 PM.

****

**> > hey loser  
** **> > guy named franklyn frodesomething got in touch, wants to buy ur wendigo  
** **> > i told him no**

>> why?

****

****

**> > he’s in LA, prob one of those types obsessed w star memorabilia**

>> sounds harmless enough. I don’t mind

****

**> > u sure? guy’s awkward, like REALLY awkward  
** **> > i just don’t want this to turn out to be a stalker or sth**

>> it’s fine Bev

****

**> > sure you’re comfortable w this? i mean, given the history**

>> I’m in a good place. I’m good with it. 

****

**> > uhh let’s talk over coffee when ur shoot is over  
** **> > 3rd Rail near wash sq?**

>> works for me.

\- - -

The hair and makeup artist assigned to the shoot was a tall, impassive man who dressed like 1930 and introduced himself as Tobias Budge. Once Will was in the prep chair, Budge docked his iPhone in a Bose sound system and began blasting Bach. He said little at first, and what he did say reminded Will strongly of a coiled, wary creature vaguely annoyed at being woken mid-nap.

It occurred to Will that sometime between Hannibal’s life-saving turn at the Faith & Flower and Beverly’s visit, he had started to think of new acquaintances in terms of how Hannibal might see them. It was not a self-conscious or anxious process. Rather, new faces made Will think of Hannibal the way good weather or a beautiful park made him think of Winston: i.e., _interesting - wish you were here to see this, too._

Budge, who wore a fucking patterned waistcoat, defied evaluation. As Will watched him work - woodenly dusting a large brush over a powder compact or organizing various hairspray cans by size and color - he couldn’t guess whether Hannibal would grudgingly like Budge, or find him flat and contrived. The Bach made it especially difficult to decide.

Soon the discomfort of staying motionless while someone masked his asymmetries with bronzer became too much to bear. Unthinkingly, Will began pulling faces, and Budge stood back with a half-smirk on.

“Many clients find the makeup chair an uncomfortable experience,” he said in a voice like warm honey and enunciating a little too clearly. “You can call your boyfriend over if you’d like. For a calming presence.”

Will twitched from both embarrassment and the itch of powder on his face. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he corrected, and immediately regretted it when Budge’s expression became one of open curiosity. “He’s my...coach. And a friend.”

It sounded ridiculous, and they both knew it. In unison they looked across the warehouse-like studio floor at the far end, where Hannibal stood conversing politely with the set designer, a gangly, Brooklyn-looking suspenders guy who had renamed himself Atticus, he proudly told all who would listen, in 2011. Will was 300% positive Hannibal had never built a set in his life, and yet something about Atticus’s stance suggested he felt wildly out of his depth telling Hannibal about his trade. He kept glancing away from the doctor, as though searching for a third person to pull into the conversation. It gave Will a peculiar stab of pride.

“I saw the two of you arrive this morning,” Budge said, his lidless stare giving his over-articulation the edge of an indictment.

Will didn’t know how to respond to that.

“You fall into step with each other. Turn towards a noise exactly like each other. Curious. Like two puppets on the same strings. Or.” Budge paused and switched from powder brush to hair brush and began working at Will’s curls like he was a fucking pony. “There’s only one puppet, and he’s matching the master’s movements.”

“An interesting, if misguided, conceit,” Will said evenly, determined not to react.

“Coach?” said Budge with narrowed eyes and soft incredulity. “Friend? Some would kill for a friend like that. I would. There is music in such coordination, and the music says what words can’t. Or won’t.”

Will couldn’t work out if this was another vague accusation or a stab at romantic counsel in an oblique, not-quite of-this-world way. He laughed, and it came out in a quiet snort. 

“It’s nothing,” he assured the stylist, waving Budge’s silent irritation away. “You remind me of someone. And I have a colleague back home who would probably love to know you,” he added, thinking that Franklyn might benefit from a Hannibal substitute. It could be therapeutic.

When his hour in the chair was over, Will stepped onto the set and found that Atticus had broken free of Hannibal after all. The doctor had wandered instead into the shoot setup, seated himself in the center of Atticus’s design, and was currently being used as a test subject by the photography team. Every so often there was a click and the smooth planes of his face were illuminated by a brilliant flash of white. He smiled warmly when his eyes fell on Will, and with a motion of his hand, an assistant clutching a light meter cleared the floor to make room for Will, who approached the incredible scene with a kind of reverence that felt almost silly.

Hannibal, dressed in jewel tones far too heavy for the summer, was seated at a dramatic, antiqued wooden table surrounded by withering, wine-dark flowers and curling foliage that smelled like old perfumed water. They exploded from a hidden structure behind him, creating the illusion that they had burst through thin air to tumble across the table and onto the floor, where they divided into garlands that curled around the legs of the furniture like tentacles. 

As though pulled straight from an old still life, split pomegranates, small animal skulls, spilled wine and crushed berries filled any remaining horizontal space like remnants of a feast. All around there was the sense of frozen movement, of heavy air and of time suspended, with Hannibal at the epicenter of a dark magic like a man on a throne. He did not rise even as Will neared.

Will’s chest seized at the vision. He thought of Budge’s words and had a sudden and barely suppressible impulse to sit on Hannibal’s knee, joining him on the heavy chair and neatly lining up his bare throat with Hannibal’s mouth. Fear, infatuation - everything he felt for Hannibal Lecter in one shapeless capacity or another were all inextricably bound up with each other. He could no longer differentiate between anxiety or anticipation or excitement, nor did it seem productive to try. Hannibal invited ambiguity. Their dynamic thrived under it. 

“Merely saving your place for you,” Hannibal said. 

“You can keep it,” Will said in a strangled voice. “Looks like you’re a natural.”

\- - -

“I have received an invoice from Franklyn via your agency,” said Hannibal in the cab home from a Lincoln Center orchestral performance on their last night in the city. His face, already not-quite-of-this-planet, was lit up in a ghostly shade of pale blue light from his cell phone screen. “Whatever you and Beverly spoke about yesterday appears to have triggered a change of heart regarding the sale of your sculpture.”

They were crammed in the backseat together, and each rough swerve and sudden lane change sent Will’s knee knocking into his companion’s. 

“I just told her I’m in a good place. And that it would actually be a boon to have that thing out of my life for good.”

Still, curious, Will held out a palm to see if Hannibal would hand his device over, and to Will’s surprise, he did. Filling the screen was a digital bill for a five-digit sum. Will barely succeeded in stifling his laughter.

“She ripped you off,” he snorted. “That figure’s twice what the going price would’ve been.” 

Hannibal frowned slightly, and Will only laughed harder. 

“I’m happy to pay it,” said the doctor, recovering masterfully. “The piece is priceless.”

Once Will caught his breath, he returned the device to Hannibal, who palmed and pocketed it. “The fees all come back to me anyway,” he assured Hannibal. “So I’ll take you out to dinner. Maybe buy you a few chairs.”

Will couldn’t see it, but he could feel Hannibal’s smile as he turned towards the window, forehead nearly touching the cool glass pane, one wrist balanced on a knee. The face of his mechanical watch caught the colorful light dancing by outside. Hannibal’s eyes were full of the city, and Will felt a pang of regret that he had pushed him away out of - what? Some twisted impulse to preempt the pressures of being a public figure under siege? 

They hadn’t slept in the same room in SoHo, but they should have, thought Will. He wondered how long he could sustain this - drifting from moment to moment and excuse to excuse while staring down the barrel of a fragile truth so obvious that even Tobias Budge had seen it in passing.

\- - -

_9 August 2013. Just Jared. **“Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter at 11 Howard.”**_

_Will Graham and rumored boyfriend mixed business with pleasure this week - Hannibal Lecter joined the actor in NYC to keep him company on a campaign shoot for newly launching men’s fragrance SMOKE by Heretic._

_[Set of images: dark, grainy, zoomed-in. Indoors at a bar. Graham and Lecter are seated on the same side of an enormous blue banquette, back-lit by votive candles and spindly branch arrangements tangled with firefly lights. In some images, Lecter appears to be speaking quietly directly into Graham’s ear. In the last image, Graham makes eye contact with the camera.]_

\- - -

_9 August 2013. Esquire on Facebook, short video feature. **“Behind the Scenes: SMOKE by Heretic.”**_

_Backing: slow electronic rock with interwoven cello._

_Series of blue-filtered clips, shot like a fashion video, intercut with each other: excessive, dark florals and dry greenery tumbling across a wooden table to the ground like drapery. Will Graham in profile, a stylist arranging his jacket collar, shot in an angled mirror. Photographer and assistants checking white balance and set design._

_Camera pans over a backdrop of stormy oil brushstrokes in shades of gray and deep blue. Graham positioned at table with one arm stretched across it, seated low in an ornate chair in three-quarter view. As if emerging from the dead flowers. Fingers loosely cupping the back of a simple glass bottle with a heavy black cap. Hannibal Lecter standing by a window, observing, his face lit up every now and then by a camera flash from the other side of the room. Intercut with: Graham, talking head in the makeup chair. (“It’s uh, intense. But in a quiet way, suggestive of uh, hidden danger. Everywhere and nowhere at once.”)_

_Brief comments from the creative crew follow, as well as from the perfumiers._

_Tendrils from a smoke machine creep across the scene. Clip tagline runs: HE’S THE DEVIL. HE IS SMOKE._

\- - -

_10 August 2013. **Tumblr post by [username redacted].**_

_[Pictured: the first LQ digital campaign image for SMOKE by Heretic. An unsmiling Will Graham seated low in a throne-like chair surrounded by mist, dead flowers and bursting pomegranates, a simple bottle sitting in one upturned palm. The color palette is like a bruise at midnight.]_

_Tags: #I’m screaMING #WHAT KIND OF BAROQUE HADES NONSENSE IS THIS #TAKE MY MONEY #THIS IS EVIL AND DADDY AF #WILL GRAHAM_

\- - -

_10 August 2017. Us Magazine. **“Stars: They’re Just Like Us!”**_

_They wear sweats on planes and wait at baggage claim with their honeys!_

_[Image cropped in shape of a heart: Will Graham looking a little disheveled, freshly deplaned and squinting at an LAX baggage carousel. Off one side, Hannibal Lecter dressed down, wearing shades, not a single hair out of place.]_

\- - -

He returned to set like a man walking through water, limbs heavy and a deep rushing noise in both ears. The crew members he passed paused to watch him walk by - or he could have been imagining it. 

Chilton had told him one of the trailers had been vandalized, but he’d neglected to say which one. Now, crossing the lot with his unit dead ahead, he saw that the targeted trailer had been his own. Someone had done an admirable job cleaning off the pigment, to be sure, but something in the paint had stripped the surface off the aluminum. Like a message scrawled by a ghost, he could still see the pale echo of the word left for him. 

A few steps away, he paused and closed his eyes.

Like the Ripper he felt time peel away. 

Fine, blood-red droplets were sucked to the trailer front like a rain of metal filings to a magnet. He heard them thud into place, and pinprick-by-pinprick the message reemerged, slick and bright and vulgar: MURDERER. 

And like distant thunder without lightning, he heard Hannibal’s voice over the rushing in his head: “Blood and breath, Will.”

\- - -

The hellish wendigo was special-delivered on a Sunday, ironically at an hour when many of Hannibal’s neighbors were climbing into Range Rovers and Maseratis to playact piety at church. It was wheeled into the foyer in a surprisingly small crate - Will remembered the frame of the sculpture being much taller. But then, he had not seen it in years, and his memory of the circumstances of his psychotic break were still murky at best. Better that way.

He circled the unopened crate (“FRAGILE,” “THIS WAY UP”) while Winston pawed and sniffed at it, intrigued by the medley of smells in which it had marinated during its trip across the country. 

Somehow, knowing what was inside the box, the sight of the dog innocently inspecting it made Will shudder, so he led Winston to the living room and firmly bade him stay in the new dog bed Hannibal had ordered.

The front hall was quiet except for the soft sounds of Hannibal’s efforts in the kitchen: a faint sizzling, the fridge opening and closing, glassware and porcelain making cool, hard contact with a countertop. If Will focused on them, he found he could lower his heart rate from rabbit-fast.

With a lever from a utility closet (Hannibal owned a surprisingly wide range of practical tools), Will pried the crate walls away from the top, one by one, until unsupported, they fell away. A avalanche of packing peanuts and shredded, curly paper descended upon the gleaming floors and Will saw the reason for the crate’s unexpectedly small size. 

The wendigo was split in half. 

The sculpture’s bony, dark body with its ridges and spines had been messily cleaved in two at the distended abdomen, and its various appendages were warped, exposing metal wiring beneath the resin frame - like it had twenty fingers and not ten, and like its horns had come alive in the box and sprouted a network of capillary-like branches. 

Will had, with a bone-deep shock of horrified familiarity, a vision of Andrew Caldwell, ripped apart at the navel and seated next to himself in an old car on a deserted, brush-lined trail. He dragged a hand down his face and forced a deep breath. It came out in a jittery burst.

As if on cue, soft footsteps behind signaled Hannibal’s arrival from the kitchen. He carried a glass of water, and in his open palm, four white tablets - twice Will’s usual dose.

“Was it good to see him?” Hannibal asked.

Will frowned. Despite its anthropomorphization, he had never heard anyone personify this particular sculpture before. It was always an It. 

“What? No,” he said, downed the medication with the entire glass of water, and dropped to his knees. 

With methodical detachment he began to free the broken parts from their packaging and laid them out, side by side in controlled rows, until Hannibal’s foyer began to resemble an archaeological dig site. The head he held for a few strained beats, cupping it in both hands and inspecting its sunken cheeks, flat eyes, and high, alien forehead. 

Hannibal watched calmly while this went on. Once everything was arranged and Will’s cold sweat had evaporated from his brow, Hannibal stirred and moved closer. Will felt a hand on his shoulder, careful and grounding rather than patronizing, like Chilton’s or Crawford’s.

“It could be therapeutic for you if the pieces were to come back together,” Hannibal suggested gently.

It wasn’t that Will hadn’t entertained that thought before. He’d occasionally had dreams about returning to the studio to restore this piece. But once the notion left Hannibal’s lips, it seemed like the most logical thing in the world to do. Of course he would - he had to. With his history, with his tendencies, if he could recover the control and the vision to pull these dismembered parts together again...there was nothing left in his art he could not do, could not face. 

“I’d really like to. It makes sense. Except I don’t have a studio anymore,” Will said, but that had already occurred to his host.

“There is a second garage,” Hannibal revealed casually, motioning for Will to follow.

They moved through a section of the house that Will had not seen before, past the laundry and past the unused service hall, with automatic lights switching on as they went. 

The so-called second garage was a generous size and held a gleaming black café racer (“Okay, I need an explanation for that,” Will said), some empty shelving and a workbench, and nothing else. Will stepped into its center, sizing it up and doing mental calculations to figure out what kind of budget he should set aside for restoration work. He’d have to start from nothing - he had no tools anymore, not even a clay cutter for molds.

Against the hallway light streaming into the unlit garage space, Hannibal was an unbroken column of shadow, the color of the destroyed sculpture, his face invisible in the dark. The alien outline of sharp cheekbones moved as the column spoke. 

“This room is yours to repurpose as you see fit, if you will have it. We can have the necessary materials shipped here, should you decide to take up this project.”

Will only swallowed, staring at the space where Hannibal’s face should have been.

\- - -

In the beginning, he tinkered away in manic throes of productivity, spending five nights in a row heating metal wiring, bending it into shapes, and reassembling the greater portion of the wendigo’s ruined skeleton. But over the course of two weeks - when it came time to set the molds for the creature’s skin - the project became harder and harder to face. Though the fear had largely dissipated, the prospect of spending long hours in a closed, silent space with nothing but the grim broken body of the wendigo would still drain him even before he set foot in the makeshift garage. Simply put, he lost the momentum to barrel on.

And the less Will worked, the less he wanted to, until repairs on the wendigo slowed to a stop entirely. If the hiatus disappointed Hannibal, who undoubtedly was eager to stand it up in his private gallery, he said nothing to that effect. Late one evening, in silk pajamas, Hannibal entered the garage while Will was putting tools away in drawers with a sense of finality, and wordlessly helped him clean as if to show his support for the break.

\- - -

_25 August 2013. Glamour Magazine, **“Margot Verger: It Girl and Bride-to-Be.”** Interview excerpt._

_[...] On the subject of her upcoming nuptials with arthouse filmmaker Alana Bloom, Margot remains mum. “It’s all a surprise,” she says playfully, arching an Old Hollywood-worthy brow. “I didn’t spend an entire year planning this thing just to tell people what my dress looks like, the week before. But I will say it’s Ralph and Russo, with a train and a crazy slit. I’m a black-tie-with-a-twist kind of girl.”_

_The conversation turns, then, to the question of lovers past. She remains, as ever, bravely and unapologetically candid about her rocky relationship with her family, the owners of Slaughterhouse celebrity lifestyle magazine, and the role they played in suppressing her sexuality._

_“They always thought I was weird,” she says, “and that I had the wrong parts and the wrong proclivity for parts. They wanted a second boy but got me instead, and for twenty-something f*cking years, they made it no secret that they hoped I’d settle down with a nice man and give them a few grandkids.”_

_On the subject of men, specifically actor Will Graham - recently known for the highly-anticipated Matthew Brown Ripper trilogy - Margot becomes reflective. “He was the last guy I dated before my brother was put into care,” she reveals, referring to the 2011 legal proceedings that saw Slaughterhouse heir Mason Verger committed to a facility in response to violent outbursts and improper conduct with minors._

_“I was under a lot of pressure, especially from my dad, and Will happened along at a time when I was desperate to show them that I could be what they wanted. But when Mason was sent away, and the feces were flying in the press...I think they sobered up. It was a matter of realizing your family’s your family. I’m all they’ve got.”_

_Here she pauses thoughtfully. “I haven’t forgiven them. It’s not about forgiveness, for me. It’s about moving the f*ck on and taking what I need.”_

_In the years since, Margot has focused on recovering her family’s business, mending their strained relationships, and (CLICK TO READ MORE)_

\- - -

The Bloom-Verger wedding ceremony, held in early September in the gardens of the swanky Beverly Hills Montage at sunset, was a long one. Margot had always possessed a singular taste for the theatrical, so after an interminable procession largely made up of famous friends (was that Taylor Swift?), Will and nearly two hundred other guests sat through two string quartet performances, nine poetry readings, an aria, and the release of glittery, beribboned balloons into the sky well before rings were exchanged and bride kissed bride. 

Margot, ever the non-conformist, wore red lipstick and a gown like liquid gold that hung off her shoulders. (As promised, it sported a slit that ended obscenely high where leg met hip, and at her first appearance, a whisper of shock made waves through the grandparent rows.) When she at last joined hands with Alana, clad in ivory lace, to lead the recessional, Will felt a pang of regret and uncertainty that was not lessened by Hannibal’s presence in a flower-adorned chiavari chair at his side. 

He didn’t like weddings. They were uncomfortable enough to begin with - social peacocking rubbed Will the wrong way. But this one was distressing on another level.

It wasn’t about Margot or any of the obvious considerations; he was genuinely glad for the happy couple. It was more that the sight of people openly celebrating their commitment to one another made him feel like a coward in his current situation somehow. Like he wasn’t adult enough to own up to the fledgling feelings - fine, more than fledgling feelings - that had been slow-boiling away in him under pressure like a pot on a stove.

Thusly preoccupied, he barely registered the couple’s first dance as the sun sank away and the darkening sky received a dusting of sparkles. Then he nearly sat at the wrong table (placecard: Graham Norton) before Hannibal’s hand at the small of his back gently corrected him and steered him away. 

Dinner was served at tables piled high with greenery and pale yellow flowers, under a clear night sky and crystal chandeliers suspended between trees. By the dance floor, the string quartet played on. Hollowly and silently, Will watched the movement of hands on instrument necks and the back and forth of bows. If Hannibal suspected anything was amiss, he didn’t call any attention to Will’s withdrawal. One of them, after all, had to maintain the appearance of normalcy.

Midway through a too-heavy main course (clearly chosen by Margot’s father, whom Will remembered as a steak-and-potatoes kind of man), Will quietly excused himself from the table. Hannibal was left mid-conversation with a TV actor who said “whatever” far too much and put his elbows on the table.

Aimlessly Will wandered to the edge of the garden and sat on a low stone wall, listening to the rush of a nearby fountain. Before him, half of Hollywood glittered and chattered on, a mass of twinkling jewelry and satin trains presenting walking hazards on the uneven ground. He wondered how many of the celebrities here had been treated by Hannibal, and for what psychiatric ailments.

Distantly he could see Chilton and Crawford already at the open bar, in line behind a gaggle of real estate tycoon types. Then there was Hannibal, left behind at Will’s table, and visible from the shoulders up in the gap between an elderly stranger and a woman Will vaguely recognized from a movie trailer he’d recently seen. The inoffensive, impersonal micro-smile Hannibal often wore had not disappeared from his face even in Will’s absence, and he was calmly listening to something - the picture of flawless social grace. 

Will felt wrong here. Or, more specifically, he felt like an off-duty waiter in his tux, more shy than shiny, bitter and out of place around glitzy company. Forever using the wrong fork. Putting emphasis on the wrong syllable of some pop singer’s name (which had happened during cocktail hour before starters). Forever dressed just a little incorrectly - one little detail just a little off. (But not his dress shoes, on loan from an Italian designer for the night, a deal that Hannibal had brokered simply by calling the man up for a seven-minute conversation.)

After a few minutes he gave up on willing Hannibal to make eye contact and leave the table, so he resorted to something he promised himself he wouldn’t do that night: iPhone scrollies. 

But any residual guilt was forgotten when three different email alerts and a series of misspelled, excited texts from Beverly all declared incredible news in bold, caps-locked headlines. Unable to believe his luck, Will scrutinized the guests at the bar, trying to gauge by Chilton’s expression whether the agent was also seeing the goddamn news at the same time. Chilton, however, was chatting excitedly with one of the real estate guys - presumably about a property in Malibu, which he had been waxing poetic about for a few weeks now - and didn’t appear to have seen his phone yet that evening.

Will was getting too much of a rush to be too bothered that there could a slight chance he was merely hallucinating his own much-needed relief. Dizzy, heart racing, he realized he could now do what he wanted to do. He was free - in a matter of speaking. No one would be breathing down his neck and threatening his private peace now, and if he ironed things out with Hannibal, he wouldn’t be dragging the man into a sick world of tabloid coverage and accusatory vandalism to become collateral damage. 

Practically sparking, Will pocketed his phone and jogged back to the party to take his seat right as the cake was cut and cheers erupted across the scene. Hannibal quizzically raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing, and then they were occupied for a while with plates of strawberry cake. 

Bride and bride made their social rounds while guests had their dessert. Margot made for Will’s table almost immediately, gold swishing in her wake. Shortly after the requisite greetings (a hug here, a kiss on the cheek there), she made a show of needing a breather. 

“I haven’t had a single drink yet tonight,” she said, shaking her head and slouching a little, more for Hannibal’s benefit than for Will’s. “But now that dinner’s over, I can do what I want. And I could really use some champagne.”

Hannibal was too polite not to indulge the bride and go fetch some, and as soon as he was out of earshot, Alana Bloom’s glamorous new wife sank into Hannibal’s vacated chair and fixed both huge eyes on Will. She had neatly and gracefully dispatched Will’s date for a few private minutes together. 

He smirked knowingly at her, feeling a peculiar admiration for her Hannibal-esque maneuver. “Nicely done,” he said. 

“Nicely done yourself,” Margot shot back, deadpan, meaning Hannibal. “Kinda beautiful, isn’t it? You and me, way back then, playing _the_ most uncomfortable game of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’ And now look. Life has a funny way of making sure we figure out who we are, and...and that we find what we need in the end. Ugh, listen to me. I don’t need alcohol at all.”

The tips of Will’s ears went pink. This was the first time, he thought, that the already tenuous line between reality and the relationship performance seemed to vanish entirely. He knew what this must look like to Margot: here they were, reflecting on a failed, years-ago relationship, now with their respective gay partners. Parallel stories of self-discovery.

In a way, she was right on several levels, and more so than she could possibly know. 

“I’ve been reading about you, Will Graham,” Margot continued, “about your work. Alana’s super proud - she keeps saying she was the first director to discover you.”

Will dropped his head to hide his smile - still not very good with compliments from people other than Hannibal.

“And she said to be careful.”

He glanced back up. “Careful?”

“You’ve always gotten deep under the skin of your characters, Will. Blurred a lot of lines. She noticed it back then, too. I think the articles floating around about you make her worry sometimes.” 

Her eyes darted aside to a point behind Will’s shoulder, and he knew their time was up. From a short distance away, Hannibal was making a beeline for the table, delicately managing three flutes of champagne that he then distributed with masterful coordination. Margot thanked him sweetly, gave Will’s shoulder a squeeze, and moved on to the next table. 

The flute of champagne that Will received from Hannibal became the first of a series of fortifying drinks downed in rapid succession. Several times he returned to the bar himself - alternating between whiskey (more his taste) and champagne (more festive for the occasion) - until he lost count and the chandeliers seemed a little too bright and a lot too blurry. 

Hannibal had never seen Will on this side of tipsy before, and his barely-restrained amusement showed. 

“Your eyes are doing the crinkly thing,” Will told him when the cake was gone, toasts were over, and all of Margot and Alana’s beautiful, wealthy guests were migrating en masse to the dance floor under rows and rows of globe lights. He and Hannibal were the last ones still seated at their table.

“An unavoidable side-effect of aging, I’m afraid,” Hannibal said with a light hum.

WIll shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like...” He sighed, looked the doctor in the eyes, and made a decision. “I mean it’s nice.” 

Then the news he had received moments before escaped in an excited rush: “They’ve found him - I mean, he’s given himself up. He’s in FBI custody.”

Hannibal stilled. “Who is, Will?”

“The Hollywood Ripper - he’s confessed to all of this summer’s field kabuki. Crawford won’t like the nickname - it taints the movie. But he’s given himself up. A man named Abel Gideon with an existing record. Copycats are still out there, of course, but Freddie Lounds can finally get off my back, and I’ll reclaim some of my privacy again. I’ll get to have a life.”

“That’s wonderful news for you, Will.”

Will frowned slightly, having hoped for more of a reaction on his behalf, but the minor disappointment was soon forgotten and eclipsed by sheer exhilaration at being free from suspicion and scrutiny. 

He held out a hand, palm up in invitation, and for a few excruciating heartbeats, Hannibal just looked at it. Then glanced up at Will’s face, searchingly. And looked back down to Will’s palm again. It seemed he wasn’t quite processing what was happening, which was not altogether a surprise, because - okay - _fine_ , Will had made a few mistakes and feints in the past with gestures of a similar theme.

Regardless. Right now? No fucking way did Will want to be left hanging. And in his semi-inebriated state, he was liable to do something about that.

“What are you - I just - come on, Hannibal.”

“Will,” Hannibal said, warningly but not unkindly, and Will could tell from the tone that he was about to launch into a fucking disclaimer speech, or throw out precisely the right phrase to deflate Will’s temporary courage, or cite some ancient parable about the dangers of dancing with an almost-flame.

With a horrible grinding noise of chair on concrete, Will pushed away from the table, leapt to his feet, and waggled the fingers of his extended hand insistently. “For once in your life,” he said archly, “would you shut up?”

Goading Hannibal sent a delightful, thrilling tingle flying down his spine. Somehow they both knew without saying that Will was Hannibal’s exception to his rudeness-as-a-sin cardinal rule. Why that should _tickle_ Will like this, Will didn’t know. But he wasn’t about to question it tonight - tonight he was making up for lost time.

And so was Hannibal, who rose panther-like to his feet, and took Will’s hand. His grip was firm but unforceful, warm, and dry. 

Will’s hand had been dry, too, when he’d first reached out, but new contact with Hannibal stirred a self-consciousness that alcohol couldn’t fix, and a helpless clamminess sprang up. If he noticed, Hannibal ignored it and allowed himself to be led to the dance floor. 

Bless Margot’s flair for drama: anchored somewhere in the trees hanging over the garden were fixtures throwing dancing beams of changing light over the party. Blue, violet, white went Hannibal’s face, a riot of flashing colors and spinning shapes of light, and standing out brightly on his cheekbone was the slightest dew of new sweat. Will smelled like smoke or whiskey, or Hannibal did, or both - it was impossible to tell - and all around was the scent of jasmine and sandalwood shot through with something muskier.

They fell into an easy ballroom sway to a slow song, Will’s hand in Hannibal’s, the other on his shoulder, faces very close and heads ducked a little and nearly forehead-to-forehead. Will rarely boldly sought contact like this; he must have been responding to a subtle tell from Hannibal, whether a squeeze of the hand or one step that fell too close. 

Turning aside to see their hands clasped together, Will felt breath against his earlobe and jaw and his dizziness worsened. Previously restrictive, his tuxedo jacket now felt like a blessing: an impervious barrier hiding the fact he was quickly sweating clean through his white shirt. 

A few feet away, bride and bride danced too, faces buried in each other’s hair in an embrace. The couple passed under a flood of warm light and looked, for a moment, like something out of a movie, and Will’s chest seized up.

Slowly and deliberately, he spoke against the side of Hannibal’s face, close enough the man could surely feel the whisper against his skin. 

“I have to deal with you.” 

Not his most poetic statement. But it was the least uncomfortable way he could tell an uncomfortable truth.

Hannibal only raised a coy eyebrow in response. 

“That is...I have to deal with my feelings about you,” Will added, leaning into the keyword with significance and willing Hannibal to instantly understand so that he could be spared the acutely intimate mortification of getting into details.

“And you have decided to do so directly.” Message received. 

Swallowing hard, Will nodded. He had the most peculiar feeling everyone else could hear them, despite the noise of the DJ and the wedding commotion.

“It used to be so easy to keep to myself. Pass the time working on my car, going for long runs. That’s changed.”

“Perhaps because you have changed.”

Will grinned, suddenly shy. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair.” He steeled himself and let out a deep breath. “I think we should pick up where we left off.” 

For a few breaths they held each other’s gazes like something physical between them. 

Hannibal inclined his head, just barely. “Think?”

“Want,” Will corrected in a hurry. “I want us to pick up where we left off.”

The satisfied smile that broke out across Hannibal’s usually inscrutable mien reminded Will strongly of a big cat satiated after a nap, or having just caught its prey beneath one powerful paw. Damn that psychiatrist training - always pushing Will to own up to these things. 

“Then we will,” he agreed. “Where shall we begin?”

\- - -

The lobby was deserted this early in the evening - the earliest departing guests would not begin to trickle home for another hour at least. But they had taken their leave of the newlyweds, made their apologetic excuses (“Early day on set tomorrow,” Will had said, a confident lie), and Hannibal had gone to find the guestbook to leave an appropriately beautiful response on their behalf.

Will hung about next to an enormous flower arrangement, holding his discarded jacket one-handed in a sweaty bundle. Briefly he made eye contact with the concierge, which was a mistake. He looked stiffly and disapprovingly back at Will, no doubt thinking he was a drunk partier up to no good. Will smiled uncomfortably to reassure him. It didn’t work.

From around a corner there came a distant, approaching tap-tap-tap on marble flooring and the swish of heavy, expensive-sounding fabric. An ageless blonde woman with a dancer’s posture appeared, trailing navy lace and pulling pins out of her hair to release an updo that unraveled into Veronica Lake waves. 

She paused when she saw Will. 

Her expression flickered - but only for a second. Immediately she was the picture of professional courtesy and detachment. The tap-tap-tap resumed in Will’s direction, and bitterly he thought it was just his dumb luck that strangers would want to interface only when Hannibal was MIA and help was unavailable. 

He started to introduce himself, but she cut him off.

“I know who you are. They cast you as the lead for my screenplay.” 

“Bedelia du Maurier,” Will inferred, reluctantly offering a hand, which she did not take. 

The screenwriter inclined her head by way of confirmation. Will had seen her expression somewhere before, but arranged this way, on a beautiful woman’s face and framed by long blonde hair and diamond jewelry, he couldn’t quite place it.

She perched herself on the arm of a nearby couch and crossed one leg over the other at the knee. Her gown swished with the movement, its embellishments winking in the low lamplight like little stars in the night sky.

“I admit I have debated meeting with you for quite some time,” she said. She spoke very slowly, as though weighing each word before uttering it. “Our film has drawn an ardent press following over the summer months.”

“Narrowly escaped cancellation under pressure,” Will acknowledged blandly, matching her cadence and speed. “Hollywood Ripper ripped a little too close to home.”

“But no longer.” She smiled, and something in it suggested she didn’t quite agree. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news and felt a weight lift from your shoulders. You looked like it tonight.”

So she had been watching him in judgment from a distance. Will bristled. He’d had enough of this lately. “Are you a psychiatrist too?” he demanded, meaning to be as accusatory as it sounded.

“I was married to one.”

Will only stared.

“Interesting profile, Abel Gideon,” she drawled on. “Doctor, surgeon. An intelligent narcissist. They’ll be mining this case for decades of movie material.” 

Like Margot before, a deer-in-headlights expression came over Bedelia as she caught sight of an approaching figure over Will’s shoulder. Whatever she was about to say died on her lips. She remained motionless and seated, but in the stiffness of her back, Will could see traces of the same creature-of-prey defensiveness he often felt in the presence of unknown others. 

Bizarrely, it was only Hannibal, fresh from guestbook signing and having also just recovered the keys to his Bentley from the valet stationed in the hotel’s drive. He had opened his mouth to call Will but saw Will’s new acquaintance on her couch, and hummed in pleasant surprise.

“Bedelia,” he said brightly. 

Will whipped around to look at him. “I thought you didn’t know each other.”

“I said we haven’t spoken, Will - and we haven’t. Not for over a year.”

Bedelia wore a curious expression, as though she were simultaneously amused but would also gladly drain a glass of wine then and there. She looked at Hannibal, who stared back, at a loss for words for once. Will could practically feel Hannibal’s brain searching for the perfect lie.

But Bedelia shook her head heavily. “You know this always goes better if you and I are perfectly honest,” she said warningly to Hannibal, as though Will weren’t there, or as though he might as well have been a potted plant.

“I’m honest.”

“Not perfectly.”

“As honest as anyone.”

“Not really,” Bedelia fired back, and Hannibal nodded once, making his choice.

He turned to Will, who had already guessed what was going on with a dawning sense of embarrassment.

“Will, I see you have met my ex-wife.”

\- - -

The rest of the encounter was a painful blur that was instantly blocked out in emotional self-defense. The five - six? seven? - flutes of wedding champagne settling warmly in Will’s stomach took the edge off most of it. But even so, in the passenger seat of the Bentley, he chattered away in disbelieving wonder, still woozy with alcohol. 

“On the one hand it’s a relief because...because this is so fucking normal. Hannibal Lecter, married. I’d never pictured you married.” On the other hand, it hardly seemed fair. He had only just broached this - this thing with Hannibal - and now this complication was being thrown into the mix?

He was talking mostly to himself. Hannibal drove largely in silence, no doubt with cogs still turning and working out how best to purge the strangeness from this situation and restore Will’s wounded faith. Of course Will would meet the previously unknown ex-wife within ten minutes of becoming the newly-minted boyfriend. Of course that was just how Will’s luck worked.

They passed a brightly lit gas station, a sleepy apartment complex, a quiet intersection. Streetlights passing overhead blinded Will every few seconds.

“She’s technically my colleague,” he muttered. “She wrote all the lines you coached me on, and you knew it. Didn’t say a thing.”

“I would have told you everything, had it come up naturally.”

Will glanced aside at the driver’s seat, searchingly. “You looked good together,” he said without bitterness, and his driver did not react. “Something about the two of you just fits.”

He sat up and peered out the windows at receding city lights, low spiky brush flying past, and the rapidly darkening night sky. 

“This isn’t the drive home,” said Will, noticing for the first time.

“No.”

“Where are we going?”

“To see something I want to share with you tonight, Will.” _And not Bedelia du Maurier,_ hung the implication, sparkling and promising in the night air.

Streetlights were becoming fewer and farther between. They were ascending into the Hills, heading for the stretch of land where Andrew Caldwell’s body had been found in its imported car of a tomb. Gravel crunched under the tires, and the way ahead became harder and harder to see. Dry shrubs emerged from total darkness to be bathed in the glare of headlights, then melted into obscurity again as the car passed on.

Will rolled down his window and was rewarded with a gentle buffeting of warm, arid wind, pleasant and drying on his clammy brow. He could hear the chirping of crickets if he strained.

Dangerously close to an outcropping, Hannibal killed the engine, and the Bentley’s soft purr gave way to the gentle rustle of frail branches in a nighttime breeze. He stepped out, took a deep whiff of the summery scent of grass and heat, and did the unthinkable: he pulled himself up to recline on the hood of his car, tuxedo and all.

Dumbstruck, Will watched with a half-smile of surprise threatening to break out on his face. Hannibal Lecter didn’t do that - Hannibal Lecter didn’t sit on cars in the dark like a Valley teenager taking his girlfriend to a makeout rendezvous. Will remained rooted to his seat until he realized Hannibal was looking archly at him through the windshield as if asking for his company.

So Will obliged, feeling like his limbs were too long for his body. Once settled, he opened his mouth to say something wry but lost his words. 

Immediately below them, from their vantage point in the Hills, he could see stately, boxy houses with huge windows resting between the trunks of palm trees uplit by expensive lighting systems. Every now and then a sports car - a Porsche here, a BMW there - would turn onto and illuminate a winding drive before disappearing into a five-car garage. Farther still, settled in the gentle dip of the land, was the city of Los Angeles, glowing a hazy gold and brightening the night sky with light pollution.

“The absurdity of this romantic trope of a moment is not lost on me,” said Hannibal, and Will could hear the unguarded smile in his voice. 

The silence, the dizzying height, the twinkling of the city below: Will took it all in, breathless. Hannibal had divined exactly what he needed tonight. 

Will felt it then, the quiet joy and thrill of another barrier having been broached - gently, gently. He’d had friends before, but never one like this, who focused him like a beam of light through a prism simply by sitting a foot away on the hood of a still-warm luxury car. Hannibal’s presence blanketed Will with the sense of hyperreality - everything became sharper, bolder, louder, more colorful. More beautiful, unbearably so. An idea occurred to Will in a flash, so ridiculous he nearly laughed out loud. What was stopping them, he thought, a little hysterically, from living together? From being around each other, always? Not like roommates. That felt juvenile. But not like...something bigger that Will shied away from still. Symbionts maybe. But no one would understand. 

How long they lay there, Will didn’t know.

Eventually they drove back into the city with tangible reluctance. Will felt, with the lingering giddiness of alcohol still, that if he let this night end this early, he would regret it for years to come. When they descended to the foothills, Will reached towards the driver’s seat and put a decisive hand on Hannibal’s thigh, midway between knee and the juncture at the hip. 

He might have been imagining it, but Will could’ve sworn that the car swerved ever so slightly - or it could’ve been the last of the champagne and whiskey still taking hold of his senses.

“Take us down Wilshire,” he demanded with a firmness that surprised him. 

Hannibal wordlessly complied, looking puzzled but intrigued. Game for anything that Will cared to ask for, as always. 

When they approached the mark, Will slapped the dashboard with an open palm. “This is it, this is it,” he cried, starting to open his passenger door before the Bentley had even finished slowing to a stop. “Pull over, pull over.”

“Please, Will,” said Hannibal helplessly, hitting the brakes so Will couldn’t hurt himself getting out. But Will was practically already running across the street towards something. “We are parked in a fire lane, Will.”

“And if anyone stops us, I’ll take care of it,” Will shouted over his shoulder. In his current mood, he felt sure he could talk his way out of anything - he was invincible, glowing as brightly as the scene rushing forward to meet him. 

Rising from concrete under a canopy of palms were eleven dense rows of pale iron street lamps, arranged in a bell curve, some topped in a spiked lantern, others capped with a gently peaked globe. Seen from one angle it was a grove of trees all lit up; from another, a series of fluted hallways fading into the darkness beyond. 

Will strolled into the center of light and froze, feeling a frisson of anticipation, acutely conscious of a looming presence approaching from behind. Slow and deliberate, a wildcat in tall grass. He breathed deeply, set his shoulders, and turned. 

Hannibal’s waxing silhouette, vague and dark just beyond the edge of illumination, was tall and lean and sinuous. He paused at the boundary between light and shadow, with only the harsh peaks of his face alight. An undone bowtie hung loosely around his neck, and the top buttons of his dress shirt had pulled free, baring the hollow of the throat. It had, Will saw, a faint sheen in the lamplight.

“So you have changed your mind,” said Hannibal, almost wondrously.

“Circumstances had to change first. And they did.”

The doctor lifted a hand, palm up, to gesture at the forest of lamps around them. “Enlighten me.”

“When everyone was accusing me - before Abel Gideon - I thought I would be trapped in the structure of violence forever. All summer there was a growing grandiosity in the violence that felt more real than what I knew was true.” He met Hannibal’s eyes steadily. “Now I can focus on the truth.”

“What do you know to be true?”

Hannibal stepped into the incandescent grove then, and the light passed directly over his face, chasing sharp shadows below the brow bone ridge until both eyes sank, invisible, into obscurity. Will had the strangest feeling he had sculpted a face like this before. No longer able to find Hannibal’s eyes, he leveled his gaze with the empty spaces where they should have been. 

The doctor stepped closer and closer. Will matched the steps - in reverse - until his back met cool iron and Hannibal stood nearly flush against him, eyes newly returned to their rightful place. Unconsciously he had thrown his head back, as if compelled by an invisible marionette string affixed to his sternum, and for a moment Hannibal regarded the curve of exposed neck, vampire-like, and leaned in.

Where jaw met throat, Will could feel the blood slamming through his veins.

_What do you know to be true?_

Only this. 

He twisted one hand into the front of Hannibal’s grosgrain lapels, crushing the supple ridged texture between shaky fingertips. There was a speck of glitter on one of Hannibal’s sparse eyelashes, a lingering trace of that night’s wedding festivities. Will thought his chest might crack from the pressure building within, and he imagined a great pair of antlers pinning him to the lamppost behind, while Hannibal gazed up like a supplicant. 

Everyone had a different taste. Kissing across a collarbone told Will what his partner had been doing that day. Running the tongue across the hollow of a throat told Will a secret about them that escaped the power of words, something vulnerable or sensuous concealed at the core. The reluctant empath’s lot. This was the same, and different. Along the lips and jawline he tasted the expected saltiness of heated skin, but at the base of the throat he stopped, discovering lighting and scorched earth. His eyes shot upwards, meeting Hannibal’s. They were heavily lidded - but open - as well. 

Hannibal braced one hand against the lamppost and the other against the jut of Will’s hipbone, caging him in. He drew so close that both dark eyes, no longer in shadow, filled Will’s entire field of vision. Parted lips to parted lips, he spoke so softly that Will felt, rather than heard it:

“If I saw you every day forever, Will, I would remember this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's not my favorite, but if you've read to this point, thanks for bearing with me (:
> 
> References to S01E03 “Potage”:  
> \- MURDERER graffiti inspired by the CANNIBALS graffiti
> 
> References to S01E08 “Fromage”:  
> \- Tobias Budge  
> \- I think "music in the [noun]" construction came from this ep, but I can't remember  
> \- "honest as anyone" exchange
> 
> References to S01E10 “Buffet Froid”:  
> \- "grandiosity in the violence"  
> \- lamppost scene at LACMA inspired by the infamous scene in which Will backs up against the ladder
> 
> References to S02E05 “Mukozuke”  
> \- "he's the devil" / "he is smoke"
> 
> References to S02E07 “Yakimono”:  
> \- "I have to deal with you" exchange
> 
> References to S02E09 “Shiizakana”:   
> \- "wrong proclivity for parts"
> 
> References to S02E10 "Naka Choko"  
> \- "I’ll show you mine if you show me yours"  
> \- wendigo imagery probably borrowed from here too, but can't remember
> 
> References to S02E11 “Ko No Mono”:  
> \- I think "deep under the skin" is from here? not sure
> 
> References to S03E01 "Antipasto":  
> \- Hannibal's cafe racer
> 
> References to S03E06 “Dolce”:  
> \- "If I saw you every day forever..."
> 
> References to S03E07 “Digestivo”  
> \- Margot's wedding dress inspired by gold dress (blouse?) from this episode
> 
> References to S03E13 “The Wrath of the Lamb”  
> \- Bedelia's dress from post-credits scene


	12. I know places we won’t be found (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break, a distraction, and a nighttime visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S02E08 “Su-Zakana”, S03E01 “Antipasto”, S03E07 “Digestivo”

_ 8 September 2013. _

_On the night of September 7th, verging on the early morning of the 8th, two men in tuxedos walked together under the pillars of Urban Light and kissed against a lamppost. Shot from clear across the street, a grainy, low-res set of images goes viral overnight across several platforms, including Twitter and Tumblr._

_No celebrity news outlet is able to demonstrate conclusively that the men are who the public wants to believe they are, but fans rise to the occasion, lovingly making side-by-side comparisons of those photos with Instagram posts made of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham by other celebrities at the Verger-Bloom wedding. These fans are nothing if not monumentally detail-oriented, drawing red circles here and there to indicate tuxedo length, pant fit, hairlines, and shoe style._

_The most commonly used tag for these photos on Tumblr was simply #FUCK._

\- - -

Will woke alone, still drowsy and with a slight headache that screamed more loudly when he pushed himself up on both elbows. Instantly, Winston was in his lap, all tongue and slobber, having clambered up from the foot of the bed where he had apparently slept all night.

For a good minute, Will thought he had been dropped off at home like a teenager after an innocent first date. But a quick, embarrassed, and slightly spinny look around his surroundings informed him that after leading Hannibal Lecter to a forest of two hundred vintage streetlamps for a nighttime makeout sesh, Will had gotten college-drunk, stripped to his boxers, and fallen asleep in the massive gray bed in Hannibal’s master suite.

He groaned out loud and fell back with a plush _whump_ against the pillows.

Why couldn’t he have merely nursed a cute, uncomplicated crush that didn’t prompt dramatic gestures? Why did he have to be so goddamned _intense_ about everything? He just had to do everything in spades, didn’t he? He needed to work on that before - oh, hell - before he fucking proposed to Hannibal during a romantic Parisian getaway or something.

It was nearly noon, going by the steep, barely-there slant of incoming light. The room was still and silent: there was no telltale rush of water to suggest Hannibal could be showering in the ensuite. Neatly folded in a chair near the balcony were Will’s clothes from last night - bow tie and all - and Will recognized Hannibal’s (ever-so-slightly irritated) organizational handiwork right away. 

He remembered it then, all twenty-seven mortifying minutes that had passed between the moment they stepped into the house at nearly three in the morning and the moment his head hit his pillow, including how he had run past Hannibal to the master bedroom, kicked off his shoes, half removed his pants, and shuffled clumsily to the bed like a man knowingly finishing dead-last in a sack race. Prior, there had been more drinks involved, too. He had helped himself to tumbler after tumbler of brandy in the kitchen, perched on a barstool and leaning too far over the island towards Hannibal, regaling the doctor with with fishing stories from Will’s youth.

Whatever else had happened, it was all a murky mess. He wasn’t sure if he had gone straight to sleep after racing Hannibal upstairs (oh God, had he really done that), or if he had wheedled the the man into - what would the tabloids call it? _Sexcapades._ That was exactly the word they’d use. 

Hopefully he’d have time to gather his thoughts and courage before facing Hannibal. Perhaps Hannibal would be out for the day, doing whatever he did on Sunday mornings. Will had the absurd mental image of Hannibal riding to a farmer’s market on a little Vespa, wearing a sunhat and a 50s-style linen suit and humming Verdi along the way.

The picture was shattered by (a normally dressed) Hannibal’s appearance in the doorway. He was carrying a breakfast tray. He froze, gauging Will’s expression. 

Then they spoke at once.

“Look, I’m really sorry that I -”

“I can leave it if you’d prefer -”

Will eyed the tray with interest: steaming coffee and a generous portion of French toast topped with confectioner’s sugar and sliced strawberries. And - of course - several small white tablets in a second, shallow dish.

“No, I would not prefer,” he assured Hannibal with a grin, and was rewarded with brunch in bed. 

Excited to be this close to so much human food, Winston barked once and quieted upon receiving a sharp glance from Will. Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed and occupied the golden dog with long, relaxed strokes from withers to tail. Suddenly ravenous, Will ate in silence save for the occasional scratch of eager cutlery against porcelain. A few bites in, Hannibal’s mild, wordless gaze became uncomfortable and he paused, fork held midair.

“I, uh. This is...not typical for me.” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Did we?” He raised both eyebrows, hoping that would be elaboration enough.

“No. You asked - but you’d had quite a lot to drink,” Hannibal said, utterly unflustered, to Will’s immense relief. As long as Hannibal could pretend to normalcy, Will found he could outwardly match that composure as well. He only needed a pattern to use.

“Did I say anything else?” 

Hannibal paused, considering. “You expressed some insecurities about my ex-wife. And about my intentions regarding her, and regarding you, based upon our short interactions at the wedding.”

“I don’t remember that,” Will protested, and Hannibal’s pointed look clearly said, Well you didn’t recall the rest, either.

“It appeared to play a significant role in your eagerness that I join you,” Hannibal continued, and Will cringed and made a show of sipping his coffee, suddenly unable to look the doctor in the eye. Then: “I took the room next door. You seemed rather keen on this suite.”

That hurt, surprisingly. Will hated the idea of Hannibal playing the guest in his own house, or sleeping in a separate bedroom like a chaste Victorian husband, or being forced out of his own spaces to escape Will’s drunkenly jealous mindset. Surely they were closer than that by now. 

"I'm sorry," Will stammered awkwardly, cheeks alight. "It was petty of me to fixate.”

Carefully he watched Hannibal’s face for something, anything. Some kind of sign that what had passed between them the night before - in the Hills on the hood of the Bentley, and then under the lights at LACMA - had pitched them forward into a new warmth and intimacy, something Will had not realized he craved so badly until that summer. 

The disappointment must have showed, because Hannibal put one hand over Will’s where it lay on the breakfast tray, and leaned forward until they bumped foreheads, softly.

“My wish is that you follow your nature to me, Will. Not the intrusion of others or of what lies at the bottom of your glass. Do you understand?”

Will swallowed. “You want me to be me. And not let the alcohol do the talking, so to speak.”

Hannibal only smiled, tight-lipped, and gave Will a brief but fond peck on the cheekbone before pulling away and vanishing behind a closet door. Will had the feeling there had been another dimension to those words that he had failed to glean, and he finished his brunch in a state of puzzlement - tablets and all. 

When Hannibal reappeared, it was with a folded jacquard robe for Will in one hand, and an openly thoughtful look on his face. 

He rarely wore a readable expression. Will suspected this one was on display solely for his benefit. Was he getting better at reading Hannibal, or was Hannibal’s composure gradually getting sloppier? Or was Hannibal merely creating the illusion of either case?

“Regarding Bedelia,” Hannibal began with a sigh, and Will arranged his features into a look of eager trust. “If she leaves an avalanche of doubt in her wake, that is part of her design. She will tell only the version of events she wants to be told. Should she attempt to contact you...let her voice join the indeterminate buzz of all the others - the stream of irrelevancies you wade through each day to become more than Will Graham.” 

Then he nodded once, eyes fixed not on Will but on a point somewhere behind Will’s shoulder, and left the robe sitting at the edge of the bed before departing through the long art gallery.

\- - -

Will thought about that morning’s exchange for days after that. He rewound and watched the scene again and again in his mind’s eye, backwards and forwards and sometimes in third-person, during every free moment he had: jogging in his neighborhood at the crack of dawn, waiting outside Chilton’s office for a meeting, sitting in traffic on the way home from filming, and standing in line at Urth Caffe to order green smoothies to go. One afternoon he even googled Bedelia du Maurier at work between takes of an especially laborious green screen scene. 

She’d won an Emmy for a popular crime miniseries on HBO two years ago. Then he stopped reading halfway down the page at “Oscar-nominated” in a fit of inadequacy.

What began as simple puzzlement over unsurprising questions (what had he really said to Hannibal that night about Bedelia?) became a series of increasingly troubled exercises in self-torture. 

Hannibal had revealed just enough detail to make Will assume the worst about what he’d let slip after copious amounts of champagne and brandy. Possibly he had admitted he thought Bedelia and Hannibal appeared to be a better fit together. Both glamorous and impeccably turned out. Both graceful and possessing the air of a kind of deadly intelligence. And they had once been married - that was no small detail. 

It also didn’t help that the look Bedelia had fixed upon Will at the end of Margot’s wedding was seared into his memory like the impression of a hot brand. Heavy-lidded and unimpressed, and somehow dismissive and critical at once. Halfway between insulted and insulting. If Will hadn’t found the expression so distasteful, he would’ve found it masterfully efficient.

Then there was the matter of Hannibal’s vague, unsolicited advice on dealing with Bedelia, and his outward hesitation while giving it. The man was not one to speak or emote undeliberately. This could be a conscious invitation for Will to ask the right questions about Bedelia and be let down easily. Or maybe this was Hannibal being honest and nervous and protective of their fledgling relationship, and Will was simply discovering new sides of him. Or - and this was the worst possibility - it was an ass-covering move in case Bedelia had some dirt on Hannibal and their relationship that Hannibal wished to preemptively discredit. She'd called Hannibal dishonest, hadn't she? And what else was she about to say to Will at the wedding, before the color drained from her face at Hannibal's arrival?

For the first time since their meeting in Cannes, Will found himself earnestly attempting to profile Hannibal but ran again and again into various dead ends. It was becoming annoyingly clear that Will did not understand or trust Hannibal as much as he wanted to - as much as he needed to.

He wanted to call Beverly. But he couldn’t - last time they Skyped, Will had stupidly lied to Beverly that he’d taken her advice and more or less cut Hannibal off. And then she must have seen the photos from Urban Light (at this point, who hadn’t?), because one morning he received a text that simply read “what the fuck.” All of his replies went unanswered.

Above all, he knew rationally that he had to talk to Hannibal about everything he was feeling. He was Will’s unofficial therapist, after all. But around that time Hannibal’s schedule became very busy, and Casa Lecter became quiet between his conference trips, and there never seemed to be an opportune moment.

\- - -

_ 11 September 2013. Perez Hilton, filed under “PEREZCIOUS PIX.” **“In the Mood for Love! Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter’s Crazy LACMA PDA.”** _

_In the hours after leaving heiress Margot Verger’s Beverly Hills wedding (ahem where was MY invite, Margot?), actor Will Graham and his hot piece took their Bentley down to Urban Light on Wilshire, where they gazed intensely at each other and - get this. Made. Out. In public. Against. A pillar._

_You say publicity stunt, I say true love! These two have been dancing around each other for AGES, and we called it here FIRST. Now ride that dick, Will Graham!_

\- - -

Text messages between F. Chilton and W. Graham, 8:27 AM.

**> > will where are you? can u come to office**

>> I’m on set - you know, where I work  
>> doing my actual job

**> > ok uh question**  
**> > the LACMA thing over the weekend, did jack crawford ask u to do that?**

>> no

**> > was it franklyn’s idea? or some1 else at agency**

>> no 

**> > ok because it wasn’t on my itinerary for u and i was confused**

>> right

**> > omg **

>> chilton

**> > omfg will**

>> it’s just improv, chilton, think of it that way

**> > WILL EVERLOVING GRAHAM**

>> i have to go, they need me in wardrobe

\- - -

The phone calls began while Hannibal was away. 

They came from a blocked number with indeterminate location. The ringing never went long enough to go to voicemail; instead, Will’s phone sang for a few short seconds before falling silent. There were never more than two attempts in the same hour, and they tended to happen late at night while Will was turning off all the lights in Hannibal’s house alone, feeling Hannibal's absence like a physical void. 

The calls - so jarring in the night - underscored Will’s sense of abandonment even worse than silence would have, and it troubled him. So he busied himself as best as he could in the evenings, watering Hannibal’s plants, strolling through the long gallery, and letting himself into the study (which he had never seen before) to crane his neck at all the books filling up Hannibal’s two-story shelving. 

A good quarter or so seemed to be color-coded journals, painstakingly written in controlled cursive with narrow loops in beautiful, hard-bound volumes. No, not journals - patient records. Will slammed the book shut without reading, and replaced it.

Hannibal returned home for a day and a half between trips, just long enough to pack a new bag full of fresh Canali shirts and take Will out to Madeo on Beverly Boulevard, where they ran into a thrilled, shiny-faced Franklyn on a Tinder dinner date with Tobias Budge (who explained that he was on an apartment scouting trip before his upcoming relocation from New York). 

In that day and a half, the unknown number didn’t call even once.

Predictably, Will’s headache returned in Hannibal’s absence, worsening an already dismal week. He had never thought to ask where Hannibal stored those white tablets, but he often seemed to serve them with food, so Will found himself rifling through the kitchen one night for a bottle of what he thought must be sumatriptan or similar.

Hannibal had a _lot_ of cabinets and drawers. They were full of implements that Will would never have thought of as kitchen essentials for anyone other than Hannibal: brasiers, spice balls, mortars and pestles, a mezzaluna, and a set of seven entirely identical stockpots - not to mention a collection of pokey, slicey tools Will couldn’t identify on sight. 

At last he found an unmarked, pharmaceutical bottle stored with unrelated items as though by afterthought. That was unexpected; Hannibal was too organized a man to keep meds next to a stack of stone coasters.

He reached up - and down came the coasters, along with his target. Will leapt out of the way in time, but three round stone slabs came plummeting from eye-level. He prepared himself for a series of sickening, ear-splitting thuds upon the kitchen floor, but each coaster made impact with a surprisingly warm, hollow sound. 

Curious. There was a lot he didn’t know about this house, still. He knelt to retrieve the fallen objects and was seized with the inexplicable impulse to lower his ear to the floor and tap it sharply with a coaster in hand. Again, the same, hollow knock. 

He rose, gazing around searchingly, and was about to look for some kind of cellar door when the distant sound of Winston’s barks came from the direction of the foyer. Will followed them on sock feet, slip-sliding around corners until he found the dog practically pressed against an enormous window facing the dark street out front. 

On instinct, Will immediately killed the lights. Once his eyes adjusted to the low light outside, he could just make out the outline of an old sedan, all lights off, stirring from its place by a curb and peeling away in the darkness. At first he suspected paparazzi. Then he remembered the phone calls and suspected worse. He thought about calling the police and nearly did, until the shame of his false-alarm run-in with Animal Control resurfaced. 

He would take no action, not just yet. Hannibal had to be home.

\- - -

Google searches by W. Graham, 12:03 to 12:59 AM.

**unknown phone numbers**

**blocking an unknown number on iPhone**

**common migraine medications**

**sumatriptan side effects**

**paparazzi law California**

**Will Graham**

**Will Graham Hannibal Lecter**

**Bedelia du Maurier husband**

\- - -

In his frustration and isolation, Will returned before long to the wendigo sculpture in Hannibal’s second garage, as though resuming the project would anchor him. It had served him well in the past to work on something with his hands until he had worked through whatever pressures he was facing. Busywork was a protective ritual.

The pile of limbs and ribs and their accompanying gaunt, alien head quickly came back together from the feet up. Once reassembled, Will reworked its skin, adding texture - bony ridges, veins, wrinkles - and a painted them in a newly-mixed oil-dark shade, an update from the sculpture’s previous, dusty tone.

It was nearing completion. Hannibal still hadn’t come home. And now Will was alone in the house with this creature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one this time while I get my life - & the inspiration - together. Thanks for reading!
> 
> References to S02E08 “Su-Zakana”:  
> \- "follow your nature" concept, plus the forehead near-touch
> 
> References to S03E01 “Antipasto”:  
> \- the "version of events" Bedelia wants to be told
> 
> References to S03E07 “Digestivo”:  
> \- the "hot brand" is a nod to the Verger brand used on Hannibal


	13. I know places we won't be found (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A homecoming, a roadtrip, and plenty of emotional manipulation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S02E08 “Su-Zakana”, S03E06 “Dolce”, S03E13 “The Wrath of the Lamb”
> 
> ft. a little positivity in the relationship before I throw these two into the fire over the next 5 chapters

The remaining few days of Hannibal’s extended medical conference tour across the east coast passed, for Will, like a David Lynch blur of disparate, eerie scenes and symbols. He stopped keeping track of time and often forgot to eat. And in between the last of his filming blocks in Culver City, Will mostly woke and slept and stared out the window, or walked Winston in a daze, puzzling over dreamscape scenes of jumbled limbs, faceless drivers of cars with headlights off, or of facing Bedelia du Maurier high up in the Hollywood Hills with the city lights only a twinkling smear behind her. 

In these dreams - verging on nightmares - she wore a dress the shade of fresh blood and a light wind whipped her hair into a frothy blond corona. Her expression teetered between accusation and trepidation.

“I’m honest,” Will would say to her in these dreams, acting as a conduit for Hannibal’s words on the night of Margot’s wedding. The voice that came out was not his own.

Then she would give him a smile that failed to reach her eyes. 

“Not really.”

This recurring dream stopped there twice, and Will would wake to the blaring of his phone alarm just before dawn. On the third recurrence, he felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck as wax figure Bedelia with her flat eyes smiled at him, and he turned to find the two of them bathed in the headlights of a used Maserati: Andrew Caldwell’s profane first tomb.

\- - -

In Hannibal’s absence, Will’s life achieved a kind of miserable peace that he now discovered he didn’t much care for. During the early Caldwell investigation, when Will’s privacy and reputation had been precious things to be fought for and defended, Will imagined silence was all he’d ever need in life.

Not so. With Hannibal traveling and with a suspect under custody and the press mollified, Will was irritable, directionless, and bored out of his mind on a daily basis. He was also woefully uninspired at final _Ripper_ reshoots, to the point that Chilton started dropping by the soundstage in all his Roberto Cavalli glory to take a shot at substitute coaching. 

Chilton’s method, to put it kindly, left a lot to be desired. It consisted mostly of hand-wringing and of asking too many questions, not to mention a fundamental incomprehension of what it meant to get in character.

“What do you need? Can I bring you scary books?”

“Who’s up for a _Saw_ marathon at my place?”

“Did I tell you my scoop on the Hollywood Ripper suspect?”

Will was fast becoming an expert at tuning Chilton out, but that line stood out from all the white noise, bright and clear. He imagined a movie-style record scratch as he doubled back and fell into step with Chilton. They were crossing the lot to their respective cars after a long day on set. 

“Say that one again?”

“Just a whisper for now,” Chilton clarified, unlocking his Ferrari with a shrill beep. “But Abel Gideon doesn’t seem to know enough about half the cases to have been involved in any capacity. They still think he’s a killer - just not the right one. The search continues.” He gave Will a funny, bobbing half-salute, half nod gesture. “And so will my Valium prescription, it seems.” 

Will just stared, processing. “You know this how?”

The agent shrugged sheepishly and sniffed. “Inside source. A little bribery goes a long way - the studio wasn’t going to be kept in the dark about that ongoing case, not when it has such unfortunate implications for, you know.” He looked pointedly at Will. “You.”

The thing about working in Hollywood was that it made one wary of inside sources. Just about everyone and their mother had an inside source for everything: the latest Brangelina fight, or whose nanny was supposedly wrecking what home.

“Just don’t breathe a word to anyone, because you and this film can’t weather any more scrutiny. We want Abel Gideon to hold the press’s attention for as long as he can. I swear to God, Will,” Chilton sighed heavily, “hindsight 20/20, I would not have pushed you for this project.” 

But Will, clambering into his car, barely registered it. He raced back to Beverly Hills on autopilot, and arrived in the driveway with no memory of the commute there, and no idea why he had felt so anxious to return home.

Home. Funny - in his head, Hannibal’s palatial glass house, with all its impractical white furniture and ridiculous large windows, had eclipsed any other place he’d ever lived to become _home_. 

The garage was open and the porchlight was on when he arrived, warmly haloing the front door.

Will’s pulse quickened, and leaping out of the Volvo, he nearly forgot to shut the door behind him in his excitement. He sprinted up the pathway to the door, each stride twice-long as usual, his heart gladdening at the earthy scent of newly-watered landscaping. A grin broke out across his face. Someone had just run the sprinklers off-schedule. 

As though that someone had heard the slam of Will’s car door, the door swung open before Will’s fingertips even so much as brushed the doorknob. 

Hannibal was home. The sight of him standing in the foyer in a dressing gown and slippers, hair freshly washed and smartly slicked back, made Will immediately weak with the sort of drowsiness that came with relief and comfort in the familiar. 

Behind him, dead center in the entry hall and standing eight feet tall on a newly carpentered dark wooden platform, rose the lustrous dark figure of the resurrected wendigo, more hideous than it had been at any other point in its terrible lifetime. Will had relocated it by hand truck the night before, intending it to be a surprise for Hannibal’s return. 

And surprised he was. He must have entered the house through the garage instead of the foyer, and had only just seen Will’s finished project.

“It’s beautiful,” Hannibal said simply. 

From Will’s vantage point, the wendigo’s horns rose as if from the head of Hannibal himself. Moved by an inexplicable, tingling frisson of awe, Will crossed the threshold and left his doubts on the doorstep. 

As though divining the unspoken need, Hannibal opened his arms wordlessly and Will walked into them, allowing himself to be folded into a close embrace. He settled his face into the curve of Hannibal’s neck and shoulder and breathed deeply. The doctor smelled of expensive aftershave, of lavender and lightning. Then - with a gravity and intimacy that sent Will’s stomach somersaulting - a firm, steady hand rose to cup the back of his head, fingers tangled deep in Will’s curls. 

They stood locked chest-to-chest for a few long moments. Finally, Will pulled back just far enough to search Hannibal’s face. Hannibal responded in kind, eyes gently darting from side to side. The hand in Will's hair did not let go. 

“You’ve missed me,” Hannibal said, voice low and like velvet, with sibilants sensuously frayed as usual. He had dropped his gaze to Will’s parted lips.

“Yes.” It came out in a strangled, dry whisper. 

“Good,” Hannibal shot back, in a tone that sounded like a wink.

Any further attempt at conversation was blissfully curtailed by Hannibal’s tongue in Will’s mouth. It tasted, Will thought, surprising and like no one else had tasted to him before: like nothing. He jolted back and caught an arch look from Hannibal.

Will breathlessly nodded his assent.

So they fell into each other and into the living room, the only thing lighting their way an accent lamp on its dimmest setting. It sank Hannibal’s eyes and the hollows of his face into darkness, and brightened his strange angles like cracked crystal in firelight. A pair of thorny horns flickered in and out of existence over Hannibal’s head and Will shivered, eyes fluttering closed and open. He felt, he registered dimly, heart hammering in its bony cage, as though he were an animal cornered - and it thrilled him.

Hannibal, thankfully, still had the presence of mind to lower the blinds with a concealed button. The accompanying rustling noise was musical and transporting like fine rain on steel. 

Now shielded, emboldened, Will bit his lip hard and stepped off the precipice. With both hands he pushed the robe from Hannibal’s shoulders and found the body beneath bare - first the hollow of the throat, at the joining of collarbone, then a clean plane of lean muscle, tanner than Will had imagined. (So he had dared imagine? Apparently so.)

Will assumed Hannibal would return the favor of undressing him, but Hannibal stood silently over the discarded pool of fabric at his feet, naked save for silk boxers, looking serene and utterly unselfconscious in his usual manner. He both was and was not part of his own body. 

At once Will knew what was happening. He had to be the one to close this particular sort of distance. 

With fingers that practically sparked at the touch, he undid the buttons down his front and stepped out of his trousers, revealing skin that was smooth and heated and already betraying just the slightest flush. 

Steeling himself, he rushed forward - 

\- and pressed that lean elegant body - straight-backed with an aristocratic bearing even now, with so little give - against the nearest wall. A barely-audible hiss escaped Hannibal’s lips at the cold contact. Will felt it hot against his neck, and the sound flew straight to the pit of his stomach and warmed, pouring into his groin as he kissed across bare collarbone. 

Without thinking - possibly the only moment of the night that was to be devoid of reflection - Will responded to a knee-jerk burst of curiosity and turned down the waistband of Hannibal’s silk shorts, drawing them down, down. 

He did the same for himself. Then he was freshly bared too, and the two faced each other in the dark, Will’s hair set alight by the lamp behind him, his own shape throwing eclipsing shadows across Hannibal’s austere form. 

Suppressing an absurd giggle - for at that moment, he thought of Mrs. Komeda’s long-ago commentary on Hannibal’s body at the gym - Will reached up and bore them both down to the floor. Then he thought about Bedelia, too, even while thrilling at the sensation of bare thigh gliding against his own, and a hand, warm and dry, palming the curve of his ass. In exultant, petty triumph, Will wondered how many times Hannibal had tumbled onto someone like this, how many had been men and how many had been women, or both, or neither, and Will felt jealous of all of them at once, stretching backwards and forwards in time. And maddeningly the jealousy compounded the thrill of being with Hannibal now - the distance and the history and the desire of others past, thick between them like a guarded secret. 

Hannibal, attentive and medically precise in the present, was a river of intuition, finding angles and rhythms with little prompting. A flood of gratitude welled up in Will that at least one of them could do this with quiet grace, while he was a shaky incoherent mess under a film of sweat, heart going rabbit-fast. The last concrete sensations he processed before his mind went blank were those of Hannibal’s hand trapped in his, of the hot pressure of another body at the juncture of his legs and hip, and of Hannibal’s mouth leaving quickly-purpling marks on the side of his neck. He made a noise -

\- and everything Will Graham was - 

\- disappeared, for a time, into the night.

\- - -

_ 15 September 2013. StyleMePretty.com feature. “ **Dancing with the Stars: Beverly Hills Garden Wedding.** ” Filed under “West Coast” and “Black Tie.” _

_Are we crazy, or did the Oscars happen twice this year? Oops - this star-studded celebration under palm trees and twinkly lights was actually the wedding of magazine heiress Margot Verger and arthouse film director Alana Bloom, which took place earlier this month at the Montage. Margot’s campy flair met Alana’s retro glam vibe for a night straight out of classic Hollywood. Below, Ellen von Unwerth’s images of the fete:_

_[A series of high-contrast, sexy photos in gold and pink tones follows. Margot at her vanity applying her own lipstick. Alana’s hair falling on bare collarbone, one side curled and the other side still being styled. Out of focus string lights. Hand-lettered place cards in shallow depth of field. Flowers tumbling across grass, and palm trees against purple sky. A leg peeking out from a high slit in a gold dress. Two diamond rings sitting on a mirrored tray, reflecting each other into infinity. Later on, a range of recognizable faces picked out from the crowd of guests: Meryl Streep catching up with Jeremy Irons by the bar, engaged pair John Legend and Chrissy Teigen laughing at a toast from their table, fingers intertwined, and - nearly forehead-to-forehead on the dancefloor, backlit by a rainbow of party lights - Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, completely oblivious to the camera’s eye.]_

\- - -

_ 17 September 2013. **Instagram post by @coolmomkomeda** , 10:08 PM.  _

_The Komeda matriarch, resplendent in a silk robe dress and clearly a few drinks into the night, is pictured standing behind Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter. The two men are deep in conversation, clutching wine glasses and leaning towards each other, unaware of the photo being taken behind them. Komeda points excitedly at both, and her mouth is an O shape as if to say: “look who it is!” Partygoers in cocktail attire mill about in the background._

_Caption: “SQUAD!!!!!” followed by 17 emojis including balloons, champagne glasses, and hearts_

_Tags: #casalecter #theboys #love #sexyandtheyknowit #keepingupwiththekomedas #komedas #coolmomkomeda [remaining Komeda-related tags are numerous; most have been redacted for brevity and taste]_

\- - -

_ 18 September 2013. **Instagram post by @miss_margot** , 12:19 AM.  _

_In her first social media post since a single honeymoon photo of a heart drawn in sand, Margot sits on a white couch, legs crossed at the knee, with a flute of champagne in one hand. The other is flung around the shoulder of a slightly woozy-looking Will Graham, whose face has gone very red thanks to the brandy he is clutching. The photo has been filtered within an inch of its life._

_Caption: “just partying with the ex & his man”_

_Tags: #alsoimissmywife #worktripssuck #newlywedproblems_

\- - -

_ 18 September 2013. **Instagram post by @iamwillgraham** , 2:32 AM. _

_A quietly intimate photo of Hannibal Lecter sitting up in bed, framed by a generous pile of pillows and with covers pulled up to his waist. He is reading something on his tablet. A bedside lamp warms his expression._

_No caption._

_No tags._

_This, of course, is the one photo from the party that gets picked up by fans and the media._

\- - -

_ 19 September 2013. **Tumblr post by [username redacted]** _

_Screenshot of Tyler the Creator tweet:_

_Un-Follow Me Now, This Is Gonna Be the Only Thing I Tweet About For The Next Week_

_Below it: screenshot of Hannibal Lecter reading in bed, taken from Will Graham’s IG account._

\- - -

_ 22 September 2013. Buzzfeed listicle “ **10 Times Will Graham Was Just a Totally Normal Boyfriend** ” _

_Heading photo: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter standing very close to each other and at a Cartier event, per the logo-emblazoned backdrop._

_1\. When he blatantly threw on Hannibal’s jacket to walk the dog at the park_

_2\. When he occupied the boyfriend couch and scrolled on his phone at the Prada store while Hannibal bought new shoes_

_3\. When he made a to-go drink run for two at L.A.’s bougiest coffee place_

_4\. When he showed up at a medical benefit gala with his honey, despite having no clue what he was doing there all night_

_5\. When he let Hannibal pick his outfit..._

_6\. ...again..._

_7\. ...and again._

_[etc.]_

\- - -

Now that principal photography was over, and the cast and crew of the _Ripper_ trilogy were now mainly working on an abbreviated reshoot and sound dubbing basis, Will had considerably more free time to hang about Casa Lecter. For the first time since Fourth of July weekend, Will felt himself and Hannibal settling comfortably back into an easy dynamic. Day by day, more of Will’s things found their way over to Hannibal’s Beverly Hills home, until one morning Will realized Hannibal had actually cleared a space in his own closet for Will’s various plaids and corduroys and fisherman sweaters. 

By October they were doing just about everything together. They cooked together, ate together, brushed their teeth and slept together. They jogged together as the weather cooled to an early autumn crispness, shopped for apples together at the farmer’s market, and perused the offerings at Crate and Barrel together for implements to make Will’s condo a little more bearable during Hannibal’s infrequent visits. 

One weekend they even drove up to Big Sur together to show Winston the roaring Pacific, then stayed the night in a bed and breakfast in Monterey. They stayed up so late by the fire on their private balcony, squeezed together on the same chaise and gazing at the stars, that the sky brightened before either of them had fallen asleep. Eventually they woke at noon to the sound of housekeeping at the door, both men still tangled together on the chaise, one of Hannibal’s knees trapped between Will’s. 

Will had taken the wheel for the entirety of the drive north, so after a light lunch by the sea, Hannibal drove the little Volvo towards Los Angeles while Will scrolled through links from Chilton, cringing inwardly (and sometimes outwardly). 

One of the links was to a series of muted, intimate black-and-white portraits Hannibal had shot of Will against heavy dark curtains for _Vanity Fair_. The internet had loved those, to say the least. Another link was a brief interview Will had done for Salon.com’s Entertainment section, ostensibly a free vehicle for early promotion of the first _Ripper_ installment. Halfway down, it devolved instead into a series of awkwardly deflected questions about Will’s relationship with Hannibal.

“I can’t talk about that,” Will had flatly told the interviewer at one point, not bothering to muster any pretense whatsoever.

It had thrilled Chilton, apparently - the agent called as the Volvo blew past Santa Barbara to tell Will why. 

“Masterful,” he gushed, and Will could hear the soft tink-tinking of silverware on china in the background. Leave it to Chilton to make a phone call from a quiet restaurant. “I know you’re sure as hell not calculating it on purpose, but this is fantastic. Keep mum. Leave them wanting more. It’ll make things feel so much realer for your audience.” 

“Whatever, Chilton. As long as _you_ know it’s not real,” Will had lied, sharing a co-conspiratorial sideways glance with Hannibal.

Because it was. It was becoming realer by the minute, with every wordless communication and every synchronized movement, and with every time Will woke with a scream in the dead of night and immediately found himself being shushed and gentled in Hannibal’s arms, one hand running through Will’s dampened hair. 

And because it was becoming realer, Will’s old defensiveness was returning threefold, and this time not solely on his own behalf. He was starting to feel the need to hide Hannibal away from the press and the rest of the world, never mind that Chilton’s plan was to court them all publicly. Hiding Hannibal meant Will could keep something of this...this thing...to himself. The reality of it just wasn’t something he wanted chronicled in public. 

Flaunting the relationship had been easier when this hadn’t been a relationship.

Now that it was, Will couldn’t bring himself to indulge the press anymore. 

All weekend long he had insisted they stay largely indoors, and if they had to venture out for food or fresh air, Will wore a cap jammed down tightly over his curls, brim lowered so far he could barely see his way in front. (Hannibal, however, declined on grounds that following suit would give him horrible hat hair.) He even briefly entertained the thought of trading his Volvo in on an SUV with tinted windows, or asking Franklyn to feed the paparazzi false locations.

Tonight, tearing down a ribbon of asphalt back towards the valley, Will kept a wary eye on cars that passed too close, or cars that followed directly behind them for longer than a couple miles. After the neighborhood watcher-in-the-dark incident of a few weeks ago, Will was now continually convinced someone was trailing him by design. Paparazzi, most likely, but Will’s overactive imagination suggested a stalker or attempted blackmailer who had yet to make their move.

From the passenger seat he looked over at Hannibal, luminous and movie-star handsome under passing streetlights and the glow of dusk, and told himself things should be fine as long as Will kept this company.

He unlocked his phone to catch up on more of Chilton’s media digests.

\- - -

_ 29 September 2013. ELLE Decor. _

_Mark your calendars - not only has Kristen Komeda’s home decor line launched at Bergdorf Goodman and Neiman Marcus to sold-out first shipments this month, two confirmed diffusion lines are expected to hit stores just in time for the holiday season, then again in the spring. Bloomingdale’s and Barney’s will carry the first of the two expansions, a moody and wintry collection. Among the planned offerings: web-like open-weave throws, antlered lighting fixtures, and tabletop sculptures that bridge the gap between the magnificent and macabre._

_“For this collection I was inspired by a transporting piece of artwork I saw at Hannibal Lecter’s house during a cocktail party,” Komeda told ELLE over cosmos at her design studio and second residence in Malibu. “It was this horrible thing with antlers, much much taller than me, and all dark and sinewy with veins and ribs standing out. And I say horrible but I really mean incredible - because it was like this mythical creature with mystery and presence. I so wanted to evoke that power. Fall and winter always make me think of the dark and the unknown and the strange. So at Barney’s I’m hoping to introduce some scaled-down monsters - they can be paperweights or bookends or - ”_

\- - -

Will stopped reading out loud. In the driver’s seat, he could feel Hannibal bristle and tense on his behalf, which Will savored and wholeheartedly appreciated. It was new to him, this feeling that there was someone Will could now always count on to be in his camp.

“She’s ripped off my sculpture,” Will said numbly, brow furrowed more out of worry than anything else. “She’s turned my wendigo into paperweights, and without telling me.”

“That is rather ugly behavior on her part.” The car slowed slightly. Misunderstanding, Hannibal offered, “We are passing through Malibu. We can stop in at that second residence and have a word with her. She will be there at this time of year. Or possibly we can convene with my lawyer on Monday.”

Will shook his head. “It’s Bev,” he clarified. “She’ll follow the breadcrumbs to the truth.”

No doubt Beverly, who consumed celebrity news to the degree a pretentious college kid might pretend to consume the _New Yorker_ , would catch wind of the Komeda news before midweek. When that inevitably happened, a series of deliberate deceptions would be exposed, all Will’s doing: enlisting Franklyn to purchase the wendigo, routing the invoice to Hannibal indirectly, and pretending Hannibal had nothing to do with the purchase altogether. All because Will knew Beverly would never agree to ship the wendigo to the man she openly regarded as a corrupting influence upon Will. This was not exactly going to help the fact that they hadn’t been on speaking terms all month.

Hannibal made a small hum of understanding, and then, to Will’s surprise, he pulled over and parallel-parked the Volvo along a seawall between a surfboard-laden jeep and a quadracycle. He motioned for Will to follow, so Will did, puzzled, with an excited Winston in tow.

They arrived, wind-buffeted and slightly more chapped than before, at a blocky, modern-looking beachfront restaurant just as dusk faded into true night. The building was crowded for the time of week, and the indoor tables looked full, but the hostess gave Hannibal a warm smile and “welcome back” on sight. 

Hannibal and Will were shown to a candlelit table on the sprawling, warm wood patio, dead center between two flickering torches and underneath a gently crackling heat lamp. The setting was relatively private - the nearest table was out of earshot, and Will could sit with a view of the ink-dark Pacific before him and a garden plot with a gnarled, quietly rustling tree at his back. Winston flattened himself against the floorboards and wagged his tail whenever another diner so much as glanced in his direction. It was almost possible - so so close - to ignore the muted, excited chattering and raised iPhones behind their backs.

Unhurriedly they shared warm sake and a generous platter of sashimi. Will filled the time in between bites with bland small talk about fishing and how much he missed it - partly because he knew the conversation would eventually turn to Beverly.

“It was always a risk,” Hannibal said evenly, his tone verging on that of his therapist voice. Will often knew when he was being handled based on the reappearance of that tone.

“I should call her. And apologize.”

As soon as the words were out, Will was hit with an unpleasant rush of deja vu, throwing him back into the client’s seat in Chilton’s office before summer began. And like Chilton in the face of Will’s unfortunate 1 Oak mishap with Selena Gomez, Hannibal, too, discouraged Will from making contact.

“I wonder, Will,” the doctor explained, refilling Will’s sake cup, “if that would be the most therapeutic course of action for you.”

Will was silent, equal parts skeptical and curious. 

Hannibal leaned forward then, and looked intently at Will over steepled fingers. “Socially, in what position do you find yourself most frequently?”

That was easy enough. “Feeling like an interloper or an imposter. Feeling like I’m saying the wrong thing. Feeling like I want to pull away from everything and everyone, but don’t know how to do it right.” He gazed into the candle on the table until it burned loud, twin streaks of glare into his line of sight. “And with Beverly...feeling like I can never justify to her the things I want.”

“Each of those is grounded in the fear that following your nature makes you wrong. And that someone, somewhere, is forever deserving of your apology because of it.”

Struck, Will glanced up and met Hannibal’s eyes, sparkling like obsidian and flickering in time with the patio torches. 

“But tell me, Will,” said Hannibal heavily, and Will felt the air around them vibrate and shimmer. “Are they?”

It often happened late at night and during conversations like these that Will’s focus on faces slipped, as though he were sinking too-early into a dream while he still sat awake. Hannibal’s countenance shifted in and out of a Picasso-esque derangement, and Will blinked groggily, trying to shake what he knew must be a hallucination.

Hannibal was still speaking, though Will had lost track of where his lips had dripped from his face and slid off to. His eyes, glittering and deep-set and laser-focused, followed suit. 

“It is my hope,” the doctor was murmuring, “that you see this juncture in your life as an opportunity to be reborn, free of these trappings and obligations.”

“Wasn’t that the goal of this press experiment? PR rebirth?”

“How does it feel to be practicing your art again? To be birthing antlered monsters in the comfort of your own home? To have so fully learned your Ripper that you become him, rather than perform him, on the soundstage?”

Hannibal's home. _Your own home_ , Will noticed, with a suppressed shiver of excitement.

In one hand he turned his emptied sake cup over and over. “Last time I became this fixated on my art, last time it became my blood and breath, it nearly killed me.” He bit his lip, weighing his next words. “This is why Beverly thinks you’re bad for me. It’s why she won’t speak to me.”

For all his stoicism Hannibal still found it in him to look mildly affronted at that. “After everything that’s happened between us, Will, you still don’t believe I have your best interests at heart.”

“No, I don’t.”

Hannibal stilled, staring, but his gaze softened at the wide, teasing grin that then broke across Will’s face.

\- - -

They stayed the night at a beach house rental on a private drive because - well - why not? Will was delighted over the break in his schedule while film production moved into the realm of the editing room.

The room they practically fell into, with hands scrabbling at buttons and belt buckles, was a glass box with a view of the ocean, dark and still as a sheet of metal. In a fit of uncharacteristic inspiration and still feeling the effects of drinks after dinner, Will turned off all the lights and left the windows unshaded, then rounded on Hannibal. 

On first instinct Will thought of maneuvering to the bed, but the thing loomed forbidding and heavy, an intimidating slab of light-absorbing gray with a severe bronzy blanket thrown across it, as though from a great height. A waterfall of liquid metal. Will could not bring himself to disturb it. 

Instead he dragged pillows and spare blankets to a corner where glass wall met gleaming floor. Wordlessly he summoned Hannibal with a look alone, and drew him in forehead-to-forehead with a hand at the nape of his neck. And he bore them both softly to the plush nest on the floor. 

Knees connected with a plush pile of cushions and fabric. For an hour - pressed against the vast window wall and leaving inelegant marks on its cold surface as they moved - they felt and looked like two bodies suspended in the starry sky over the Pacific.

When Will came back to himself, he was on the bed alone, limbs starfished, tangled into the bronze throw blanket. He had finished, staggered up and away from the sweat-smudged window, and collapsed backwards to wait out the explosions of stars against the insides of his eyelids. In the breathless caesura that followed, Hannibal quietly disappeared into the bathroom, later emerging in soft trousers in black watch plaid. He had also, Will could smell, washed himself cursorily. The muscled planes of his shoulders gleamed ever so slightly with wet as he re-packed a few items for the drive home in the morning: a jacket here, an iPad there. 

Will had been invited to the _before_ , but the _after_ \- still a private ritual - belonged only to Hannibal yet. No interlopers. Even after the kind of summer the two had shared, Hannibal still preferred to transition seamlessly from sweaty intimacy to scented composure. Soft, quiet barriers like these - which called attention to themselves with absence rather than presence - made Will keenly feel the gulf that remained between them. Frowning, he was searching for the perfect, witty icebreaker with which to fill the silence, when Hannibal spoke first.

“I must confess,” he began, and Will perked up at the intriguing start, “that with a casual comment the other night, Mrs. Komeda planted a seed that has since flowered into what I feel is an appealing opportunity.”

Too boneless still to get up and shower, Will pulled his knees up to his chest and sat back on the bed, raising his brows at Hannibal.

“Do you own or rent, Will?”

Will stifled a snort. “Are you kidding me? With Los Angeles prices? I lease.”

“Break it.”

“What, my lease?”

“Come live in Beverly Hills with me. I have more than enough space.”

Hannibal said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Will simply looked at him, slack-jawed, before dragging a hand down his face. 

“Jesus. Space isn’t the issue, Hannibal.”

“If you have other practical considerations, I would point out that eighty percent of the rent you pay goes to waste, as you spend most of your evenings home with me.”

It would be lying, Will thought, to pretend he hadn’t thought about this, but there was a difference between idle daydreaming and practically scrawling “Mr. Will Lecter” in a black-and-white composition book and picking out monogrammed hand towels in a coordinated color scheme. He hadn’t dared let it get beyond a distant, passing notion in the way one might wonder about visiting Australia someday.

Hannibal did not press further, sensing that Will would need time to process. He kissed Will on the temple and said goodnight, and until dawn Will drifted in and out of vague, unstructured dreams of hallways upon tilted hallways, stark white furniture, an unseen Winston’s echoing barks, and a freshly-lacquered wendigo - gimlet-eyed and inky - that seemed to follow him from room to room even though Will never caught it moving. 

In the morning they re-loaded the Volvo, got Winston settled comfortably in the backseat, and hit the coastal highway. With coffee in cupholders, they headed east down wide, palm-lined roads towards the morning sun glancing off hills, and into the city of Los Angeles. For ten miles Hannibal held Will’s hand on the center armrest, and Will, reminded of Hannibal’s proposition and distracted by images of shared domesticity - of unpacking boxes, loading the dishwasher, brushing their teeth side-by-side before bed - failed to notice the old sedan that followed them the entire way back to Beverly Hills. In the passenger seat, Hannibal watched their shadower in the wing mirror and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S02E08 “Su-Zakana”:  
> \- can't remember but I think the head-cupping is vaguely inspired by the end scene  
> \- this might also be where the rebirth exchange kinda comes from
> 
> References to S03E06 “Dolce”:  
> \- idk, there's something but I can't find the reference now. BUT I KNOW IT'S HERE
> 
> References to S03E13 “The Wrath of the Lamb”:  
> \- "it's beautiful"


	14. Let them say what they want (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An inevitable move, a nighttime visitor, and an interrupted call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E01 “Aperitif”, S02E06 “Futamono”, S03E09 “And the Woman Clothed with the Sun”, S03E13 “The Wrath of the Lamb”

_ 3 October 2013. **Celebrities Read Mean Tweets** \- on Jimmy Kimmel Live. _

_Will sits in front of a brick wall, uncombed and sporting a serious case of 5 o’clock shadow. He reads flatly off a phone in one hand:_

_“Will Graham looks like the matted clump of hair I fish out of my shower drain once a year.”_

_He raises his eyes to the camera. Then, deadpan: “He’s not wrong.”_

_(The camera then cuts to a another face - Ke$ha’s - for another tweet.)_

\- - -

It did happen eventually - the move - but little by little.

Will never specifically brought up Hannibal’s offer again, and come to think of it, he never specifically decided once and for all that he would take Hannibal up on it. Instead, as though he were unconsciously testing the waters over a period of weeks, Will slowly migrated his things to Beverly Hills and left them there without a word.

First went Will’s clothes, in two waves (pre- and post-Hannibal): the pilling flannels, the worn corduroys, the field jackets in various, only slightly-different shades of olive green, and then the slim trousers, merino knits, the button downs and skinny ties. 

Then Winston’s belongings began trickling in: a sherpa blanket, a kitchen barrier, canine shampoos, all his preventative medications, and eventually an enormous airtight dry food container. 

By the time Will began carting in his less everyday knicknacks (an old framed photo of his dad, porcelain dog figurines, fishing equipment), Hannibal had caught on. In fact, one morning as Will kicked open the front door with a cardboard box of musty books in his arms, Hannibal greeted him in the foyer, sipping on coffee in a manner that managed to be both fantastically smug and perfectly, obliviously innocent at once. 

In the end, Hannibal sent a truck to transport Will’s kitchen implements and furniture to a storage facility - all except the Milo Baughman chair, which took up residence in Hannibal’s living room, and the BeoVision, which then equipped the guest room. The move was accomplished with neither party acknowledging the specifics of what they’d just done, or the relationship implications of it all. They just sort of...slid into casual, unquestioning cohabitation.

It was better that way. Better without all the self-interrogation that usually came with these things. 

After all, Will was never quite sure if the things he wanted were things he wanted, or if they were things he thought he should want. Or, on occasion, if they were things someone else wanted, and Will couldn’t tell the difference between his own desires and the desires of others. 

Well, except for one crucial desire that was glaringly and unquestionably his own - and that was the desire for some fucking privacy in his newly-chosen domestic retreat. No sooner had he moved in with Hannibal than his nighttime stalker returned, sans headlights as usual. 

The clues were minuscule: the slow, quiet crunch of invisible tires on gravel knocked loose from Mrs. Komeda’s landscaping, or the sudden flash of a phone screen in the street before it was hastily switched off. Once in a while, if the stalker weren’t careful, their presence would piss off a dog that would began to distantly bark. Until he didn’t.

“They’re getting smarter about this,” Will said one night, standing at the open living room blinds and watching an old sedan idle down the street at a glacial crawl and come to a stop a few blocks down. In preparation for this little night vigil, Will had gone around the room and switched off all the lights first, making the contents of the house pitch-black and invisible. Hannibal had watched his efforts from the couch, in between page turns of his book, looking amused as he nursed a glass of red wine.

“The neighbor’s dog has been quiet the last few days. I think they’re feeding him as they drive by. Giving him a little something to keep him happy and occupied.”

When Hannibal said nothing but continued to sip, eyebrows ever so slightly raised, Will rounded on him, arms folded tightly. 

“I can’t believe this doesn’t bother you,” he said testily. "Am I imagining this? This can't just be a neighbor getting home late."

“Even if not, we likely face no immediate threat. I am no stranger to the occasional nighttime visitor.” 

“Oh? So this is just another day in the life of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, celebrity psychiatrist?”

Hannibal made a small hum of light-hearted agreement that did nothing to improve Will’s mood. Not seeing the humor in the situation, Will began to pace so hard around the center of the room that he imagined a perfect ellipse becoming worn into the rug. 

“Our visitor is most likely Franklyn Froideveaux again.” 

Will’s jaw just about hit the floor. 

“Again? What do you mean, ‘again’?”

At Will’s irritated amazement, Hannibal breathed in mock patience as though calming a child. 

“Some years ago,” he explained airily, “Franklyn took to parking near the foot of the drive, twice a week. I confronted him. He explained he wanted a friend and that he knew we frequented the same cheese shop in Santa Monica. I let him go when I was certain he would not pay me a nighttime visit again.”

Incredible. Will caught himself working his jaw - a bad habit and nervous tic - and settled for a groan of frustration instead.

“You didn’t think to call the police? I have to work with him now!”

“Franklyn is harmless. Besides, I saw an opportunity to set a foundation for a positive dynamic instead.”

“You mean you saw the opportunity to groom some kind of errand boy indefinitely, in exchange for not having him arrested,” Will shot back, then fell abruptly silent, realizing how brusque and critical it had sounded. He didn’t know where that had come from. Possibly some ugly internal demon of his had always feared being used or handled like that. He braced himself for what he thought would be an inevitable backlash.

But Hannibal merely stood and departed for the kitchen, taking his wineglass with him. His silent exit was somehow twelve times worse than it would’ve felt had Hannibal simply stood his ground and let Will have it.

Wringing his hands, Will followed, trotting to keep up.

“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly, leaning against the kitchen island while Hannibal placed his glass delicately in the dishwasher and started a cycle. “I didn’t mean to accuse you of calculation.”

“My years-ago decision to let Franklyn go,” Hannibal pointed out mildly, “ made possible your plans with Beverly and the sculpture.”

Chastened, Will nodded deeply, and sidled around the island to trap Hannibal against the counter between braced arms. 

“Sorry. I know.” 

With a look of mock-seriousness, he planted a kiss on the edge of Hannibal’s jawline.

“And Franklyn has done us no ill, in the end.”

“I _know_.” 

Another peck. This time, Hannibal relaxed into it, returned it, and gave Will what could only be described as the briefest of nuzzles. An uncommonly sweet gesture, it struck Will, and he lightly took Hannibal’s chin in one hand to give him a soft, laughing kiss on the mouth. 

“Are you trying to distract me?” Hannibal asked lightly. Facetiously.

“Now look who’s making accusations.” 

Playfully Will ran a finger down Hannibal’s nose before tapping it lightly on the tip. Hannibal pretended to snap at his finger as he drew back his hand. 

“Go to bed, Will. Let me deal with Franklyn,” Hannibal said, and disappeared down the hall to the front door.

Briefly Will let Winston into the backyard to do his business, then put him in his dog bed for the night (Hannibal did not allow him to sleep in the bedroom anymore). Aftterwards he took two white tablets that had been left for him on the counter and retired alone to Hannibal’s suite. All the while, he was conscious of the lights he turned on and off as he went on his way, wondering if the silent watcher in the street were tracking him from room to room as he did so. It made his skin crawl and aggravated the particular kind of near-physical rage he’d felt when all of Los Angeles had thought him a killer.

But it dissipated when Hannibal returned and joined him in the bedroom. He had not been long outside. Will lay waiting under the heavy covers in the dark, listening to muffled sounds of running water and brushing coming from the ensuite. Finally, a stripe of light fell across the bedspread as Hannibal emerged from the bathroom, then blinked out.

The covers shifted and Hannibal got settled in bed. Will turned to look at his faint outline in the dark.

“How’d it go?” he asked, taking care to sound unbothered.

“You worry too much, Will. Everything is fine.”

His voice sounded farther away than usual, which meant that Hannibal had turned his back. The conversation was very much over before it had even begun, and as the minutes ticked past midnight, Will silently became more and more frustrated with the non-answer.

Still awake at one in the morning, he sat up in bed. The feeling that something was wrong still gnawed at him doggedly. He put a hesitant hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, but the other man’s breathing was quiet, deep and steady. Not wanting to wake him, Will resolved to face the interloper alone, rose, and padded carefully down the stairs in the dark. 

He bagged up the kitchen trash as he went. Might as well. No reason he couldn’t take out the trash in two senses of the word, all at once.

Will emerged to a starless, cloudy night. Sure enough, in the curve of the street, in between two neighbors’ curb stretches, sat a ten year-old but well-kept Mazda sedan that couldn’t have belonged to anyone who lived on the street. Like hell it was Franklyn. _Like hell_ Hannibal had dealt with anything at all. Franklyn drove a Beetle, for fuck’s sake, and here the evidence of Hannibal’s outright lie sat staring Will in the face.

He dropped the trash bag in the bin at the foot of the driveway and slammed it shut almost pointedly, staring straight ahead at the strange car. Then he began crossing the street, shoulders squared, unsure which one had him more incensed at the moment: his stalker, or Hannibal.

The Mazda’s driver-side door clicked open and out stepped a much smaller figure than Will had expected. He had pictured the same kind of cap-and-shorts wearing paparazzo he usually saw tailing him while he ran errands. But this? This was something else entirely.

Specifically, his visitor was a tiny, elfin-featured woman with a cloud of tight red curls, and she wore a fucking plaid blazer and skirt set as though midnight trespassing demanded a business tartan dress code. Paparazzi didn’t present like this. No one presented like this, thought Will fiercely, or at least no one not on their way to a Scottish wedding at a bank. 

“Now are you just keeping Beverly Hills clean, or was that evidence?”

She said it with a lifted chin and a laugh in her eyes. The sheer confidence of it utterly threw him, and every single product of his days of mental rehearsal - all the times he’d spent angrily fantasizing about what he’d say to his nocturnal stalker - deserted him in a flash.

“You’re trespassing,” he said instead, lamely. 

With a tilt of the head she made a noise that sounded irritatingly like a condescending _aww_.

“I’ve been trespassing for ages,” she pointed out. “It took you long enough to notice and come talk to me; I was worried _he_ would get to me first.” She jerked her head towards the house, clearly meaning Hannibal. “Dr. Lecter did come out to stand on the doorstep and stare at me a while ago. So what was in the bag? Maybe parts of Andrew Caldwell that we missed?”

It hit Will, then. 

“You’re Freddie Lounds.”

“And you’re slower than I thought.”

“I’m not talking to you. Your article -” he spat, practically seeing red, but she had the gall to silence him with a raised palm.

“I’m not here to point fingers - at least, not at you this time. I’m here with important news and a proposition.” 

Will shook his head hard, starting to back towards the house. “He might not be pressing charges, but _I_ will. The article flippantly accusing me of terrorizing the Valley was one thing, but sitting in the street every other night for weeks-”

“I’ve only been here twice before,” she corrected him. 

Freezing, Will considered this. He turned, assessed her look of mild surprise, and decided she was telling the truth. Someone else had been coming through the neighborhood, too, and that someone else was being more frighteningly persistent than Freddie.

She knew she had him, then. That revelation had sent cogs turning, and whatever she had to say, she knew Will was curious - even invested - now that he was unsettled. 

“Gideon’s the wrong guy,” she blurted out.

“I’ve already been told.” Chilton had lots of loose-lipped friends in the most unexpected places.

One corner of her red-lipped mouth quirked a smug fraction of an inch upwards. “But have you been told why?” 

Will just fixed her with a stony look.

“I got to interview him in holding. Interesting guy: has a pretty fragile sense of self after decades of instability, institutions, and working with shrinks. He says was put up to confessing crimes that weren’t his, and he intriguingly remembers getting his instructions in a cobalt blue dining room with a wall garden.” 

She nodded up the driveway at the glassy facade of Hannibal Lecter’s house. 

“ _That_ cobalt blue dining room. I was doing reconnaissance, seeing that room for myself. Plus acting as neighborhood watchdog - you see, I think your boyfriend does most of his work at night. And I think, if we work together, we can figure out the nature of the Gideon connection.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Freddie virtually glowed in triumph until Will began to laugh.

“What?” she said, brows knitting together and actually looking concerned, as though she hadn’t just dropped the whopper of the century out of the total fucking blue. “You know the best explanation as to why Abel Gideon can perfectly describe Hannibal Lecter’s dining room is that he’s been in Hannibal Lecter’s dining room.”

With mock patience and a heavy sigh, Will told Freddie Lounds that the house had many windows, that the word of a tabloid reporter could hardly be considered proof, and that if she could please get back in her car and never return, that would be just great, thanks. Or if she wanted to spend the wee hours of the morning answering questions at the police station, that could of course be arranged as well. 

A wide rectangle of light fell across the driveway from an upstairs window then, and the small, sharp features of the reporter’s face instantly lit up with alarm. But she wrestled to suppress it, and the deer-in-headlights look was soon gone. 

She whipped out her phone. “At least give me a number I can reach you at.” Then, off Will’s incredulous look, she hastily added, “Fine, find me through my website. Don’t leave a trail.” 

Her expression, then, was so earnest and serious that against his better judgment, Will hesitated and some of his resistance chipped away. Just as he often read other people, he sized Freddie up: a woman who, in her younger years, had feigned bulletproof confidence with such determination that the confidence was now real and bordering on recklessness and the assumption of invincibility. Perhaps more disconcerting was that Will did not read falseness in her, exactly. There was a certain wiliness, sure - but a small flame of righteousness burned beneath her controlled countenance and gave Will pause.

A still largely shapeless suspicion began to bloom.

He had no reason to, but he found himself desperately wishing Freddie would get away in her little Mazda before Hannibal made it outside. And she did, but not before smirking and calling over her shoulder, “Good luck with your regular stalker.”

She was rounding the corner at a distant stop sign by the time the front door opened and Hannibal appeared as a crisp dark shape against the glare of foyer lights. 

“Will?” he said simply, compressing his question into a single, soft utterance of the name.

Will tersely parroted Hannibal’s earlier words back to him: “I dealt with it. Everything's fine.”

\- - -

The next day, they went through the motions of their morning routine while speaking as little to each other as they could manage. It was a strange and delicate situation that Will found himself in: maintaining the appearance of ordinary domestic tension in hopes it would veil the true misgivings rippling like a current beneath.

Mid-breakfast, the doorbell rang. Grateful for the chance to take a breather from their wordless morning meal of coffee and avocado toast, Will pushed his chair back with a screech (Hannibal looked up, just barely) and made for the front door.

In the porch camera feed, clad in jogging gear, was their neighbor from across the street, a plastic surgeon named Jeff who had himself been operated on one too many times. He was typically an aggravatingly upbeat figure, but this morning he looked solemn.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said by way of greeting, but his expression suggested he would barrel on even if he were.

Will demurred quietly, somehow already having divined what the man was going to say.

His dog had been missing for days, the neighbor explained. One night, Rex simply and silently vanished from what the family had thought was a secure backyard. 

“Dunno what’s gotten into him,” he said heavily, “he’s a real territorial homebody. He drags me back to my doorstep at the end of every walk. I thought of putting up ‘lost dog’ posters, but honestly,” he dropped his voice to a co-conspiratorial whisper, “Jenna thinks someone took him.”

“Someone who knows the yard and house setup,” Will offered, putting together a few uncomfortable pieces in his head. Someone who’d had time to stake out the neighborhood, he thought. Someone who needed to eliminate the threat of a noisy watchdog as they sat in the street night after night.

The surgeon put a finger to his temple in a _ding-ding-ding_ gesture. “So just - if you see anything, or hear of anything, drop by and let us know. Maybe it’s someone with a grudge, or I don’t know, some sick idea of a prank or whatever. And if that’s the case, I’d keep an eye on your Winston.”

As Will numbly nodded his agreement, Jeff began jog-walking back down the drive, then waved from the bottom. Over the roar of a nearby lawn mower, he shouted, “Say hi to the doctor for me.”

\- - -

Impulsively, the next time he received a nighttime call from an unlisted number, Will picked up on the first ring and went into the study for privacy, leaving Hannibal behind on the couch looking mildly confused. If there were a connection between the calls and the stalker and even Freddie Lounds’s strange midnight visit, Will had to know. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to have a listen - because worst case, he’d have something concrete to tell the police if the time came. When the time came.

There was a soft woman’s voice on the other end, slow and heavy and distant-sounding. At first the character of it arrested Will, and he heard her drawn-out vowels and pointed pauses before he registered her words themselves. She ignored Will’s interjections. She was giving instructions. Dates, addresses, a number?

Phone trapped between shoulder and ear, Will rummaged in Hannibal’s desk for notepaper and a pen and instantly snatched his hand back with a pained hiss. 

Hannibal kept a scalpel in his desk.

A thin line of blood appeared down the pad of Will’s middle finger. As the digit throbbed, the line swelled into a single fat droplet that hit the desk and left a tiny splatter mark. Almost simultaneously, the door to the study clicked open, and Will’s head jerked up at the sound. His phone clattered to the desktop and, he saw, the call ended instantly. 

Hannibal had just appeared at the threshold to the main hall. He carried a glass of water and - in the other - a dish containing two small, white tablets.

“Who was it?” the doctor said quietly, the picture of innocent curiosity. Then, seeing the Will’s upturned palm and freshly bleeding finger, the curiosity slid elegantly into concern. 

“You’re bleeding.”

The water and pills were deposited on a small end table, and Hannibal moved behind the desk, where he eased Will down into the leather swivel chair. Then as Will watched, breathless, heart pounding in his ears, Hannibal sank to his knees, drew Will’s injured hand into his own, and kissed the palm before taking the cut fingertip into his mouth. 

It was beautiful and transporting, and strange and vampiric - and Will suppressed a shudder of excitement at the novelty of feeling someone else’s tongue, hot and velvety, beneath the sensitive pad of a finger. 

“You have a scalpel in your desk, of all places,” Will noted. The question was implied.

He blinked slowly and heavily, processing each sensory input separately and with quietly and barely contained pleasure. The gentle suction. The slide of slick tongue against skin. That gorgeous, obscene image of Hannibal in a too-proper, too-crisp button down, kneeling between Will’s legs with one hand braced on Will’s upper thigh.

“It cuts better points than a pencil sharpener,” Hannibal explained, freeing Will’s hand.

A thought occurred to Will about Beverly's misgivings and her adamant dislike of Hannibal, and about Freddie and the watcher-in-the-night and Hannibal's pretense - still unexplained - of having confronted their trespasser.

"One of these days," he said, carefully and vaguely, "we need to have candid discussion about mutual honesty."

Hannibal hummed. "You sound like Bedelia."

For the second time in a few short minutes, Will indulged another heady jolt of impulsivity and ran his hurt fingertip, still tender but no longer bleeding, along the neat, bony ridge formed by Hannibal’s bottom teeth. The doctor bit down softly, teasingly. Will heard his own laugh, soft and breathy and a little nervous, in the back of his throat and as though it had come from someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S01E01 “Aperitif”:  
> \- Hannibal using a scalpel to sharpen pencils 
> 
> References to S02E06 “Futamono”:  
> \- Abel Gideon & the cobalt blue dining room
> 
> References to S03E09 “And the Woman Clothed with the Sun”:  
> \- exchange with Freddie about trespassing 
> 
> References to S03E13 “The Wrath of the Lamb”:  
> \- Hannibal to Will: "you worry too much"
> 
> \+ general S03 references to Dolarhyde dispatching family pets


	15. Let them say what they want (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E10 Buffet Froid

These days, Will spent very little time by himself. Even if he were not directly interacting with Hannibal Lecter, he spent morning, noon, and night dimly and almost physically aware of the other man’s presence nearby like a warm glow. Hannibal was forever buzzing around the kitchen in a flurry of movement, or pruning shrubbery outside the glass walls of the bedroom, or reindexing his collection of leather-bound and color-coded notebooks, with up to twenty volumes fanned out across the living room floor at once.

The only windows of time Will could find to be alone with his thoughts were during his brief drives to Culver City for the last of his Ripper trilogy reshoots. And as Will became more and more at a loss for what to do about Freddie Lounds’s nighttime visits, the unlisted phone calls, and his nighttime stalkers, those drives came to be a relief. The closest thing Will had to me-time. The safest, he realized, that he had felt in a while. 

Speeding south towards the studio complex, Will thought mostly about Hannibal: about his little deceptions, about his impassivity, about his need to expand and fill all the corners of Will’s life like a bouncy castle in a too-small room. And he thought of the scene in the study - of the blade across the sensitive pad of his fingertip, of the clattering of his phone to the desk, and of his blood on Hannibal’s tongue.

“One of these days,” Will had told Hannibal, feeling his heartbeat in his throat and a sting in his finger, “we need to have a talk about mutual honesty.”

Kneeling on the floor between Will’s knees, the doctor had let out a small hum of noncommittal acknowledgment. 

“You sound like Bedelia.”

Bedelia, Will realized. Reminded by the mention of her name, Will knew at once who his blocked caller was.

He arrived on set in a disoriented state, entirely beyond anxiety, feeling on the verge of falling over or laughing uncontrollably, or both. As a wave of blinding pain dashed him against a wall, he recognized the attack as the violent return of what he’d been suffering at the start of the summer - back when Chilton had to fight to keep accounts of Will’s early-AM sleepwalking out of the press.

A face appeared before him, or at least a flesh-colored tableau with vague facial features jumbled upon it like a watery Picasso. 

“Mr. Graham,” it said, muffled and indistinct as though very far away. “You don’t look so good.”

There was a sound like a thud and a crunch and then a flash of light and he was fine, blinking away a lingering stab of pain underneath a daylight fixture and a boom mic hovering above. He was fine. He was confused but he was fine, and the melting face was gone.

Matthew Brown stood by a camera operator, watching something play back on-screen with a tight-lipped look that plainly said Will was wasting everyone’s precious minutes today. 

“Let’s do that one again,” said Brown. Then, more loudly: “Get him cleaned up, and reset the props. Jack the Ripper guts a fish at home, take four.”

Wordlessly Will stayed put and let a pair of assistants wipe down both hands from fingernail to wrist, scrubbing his skin free of drying SFX blood until the skin revealed beneath glowed pink and sensitive. As he listened to the rushing in his ears, the handlers then stripped him of his stained shirt and buttoned him into a new one, and powdered away the cold sweat on his temples. 

It came right back when he saw the prop layout on the Ripper’s countertop. Two fish laid parallel, one above the other, a scaly equals sign. A gleaming fillet knife. Brown had gone for the real thing, knowing Will fished in his spare time. So - eager to deliver and reluctant to let everyone down - he held the point of the knife against the soft underside of one fish, dragged the blade along the length of its belly, and watched its ripe, dark guts seep gently out of the cavity that its shiny pink flesh parted to reveal. 

There was a gurgling noise. Andrew Caldwell’s dimming eyes went saucer-round, and he thrashed on the countertop, knocking the knife free from Will’s hand. 

A strangled scream tore itself from Will’s throat, and he forced the dying man back down, one hand at his throat and the other arm plunging elbow-deep into a long, harsh incision exposing his victim’s entrails to the air. 

“Will?” said Matthew Brown’s faraway, disembodied voice, sounding more concerned than angry. “What’s happening?”

When Caldwell’s movement ceased, Will collapsed to the floor and scrambled backwards on blood-slick hands and feet until his back hit the kitchen wall. Spread out on the counter like an offering, Caldwell’s open-mouthed body dripped blood with a soft _plink-plink-plink_ onto the tile.

“Where did you go?” said Brown, more urgently this time, and Will convulsed.

Again. A noise and a flash and Will was fine - fine for a beat or two before he took stock of his darkened surroundings. He was in an office. He held a fillet knife in one sticky hand, and supported the loosely-flapping jaw of an unfamiliar man with the other. 

The man sported a Glasgow smile - the movie Ripper’s signature - taken to a grisly extreme. Will could see the full length of his tongue, and see every single one of his teeth, set like twin arcs of pearls in a dusky pink softness, and look into the glistening base of his throat. Violently ill, Will shoved the limp body away and let fall the knife. The weapon glanced off the edge of a heavy wooden desk and fell, point down, into thick carpet, where it remained accusatorily upright. 

He threw up on the spot and staggered back, shaking, against a wall covered in framed accolades and family photos. His hands were covered in blood, and soon so were his face and his clothes and his hair as he clutched and clawed at himself in a terrifying new brand of silent panic that felt, somehow, beyond exclamation. He had no way of knowing, did he, which had been hallucinations and which had been memories: working on set, or gutting Andrew Caldwell, or finding himself in a doctor’s office in the dead of night, having sawed off the lower half of a stranger’s face.

The momentum of Will’s horrified push had sent the dead man’s swivel chair softly turning, and his hands dangled over both armrests like parts of a grotesque hanging mobile. Will watched him spin, then felt his own body go cold when a warm light flicked on in the hallway beyond the open door.

He thought of running. But everything had shut down. Besides - there was nothing to run for, not when he would lose everything and everyone he held dear, no matter whether he stayed or left. Numbly he pictured Hannibal at home, lying in bed, wondering where he had run off to, and pictured him the next morning, answering the door to greet a pair of grim policemen who would dutifully deliver him the news. And he wouldn’t react, of course - he would retreat into his study and pick up that scalpel and sharpen himself a new pencil and draw. 

Maybe he would draw Will. Maybe he would mail the sketches to Will in prison.

A tall shadow fell across the doorway, blocking the hallway light. 

Whether it was fear or vomit rising in his throat, he couldn’t tell.

“Will,” said Hannibal Lecter, his voice soft and pained and with the slightest hint of a tremble in it, as though he were holding something back. “What have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S01E10 Buffet Froid:  
> \- Dr. Sutcliffe's Glasgow smile


	16. Let them say what they want (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Processing the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: misc S01, S01E09 “Trou Normand”, S01E13 “Savoureux”

In the excruciating, wordless beats that followed, only the soft, mechanical roar of air conditioning and the gentle squeak of the slain doctor’s still-rotating office chair were audible.

It was like the air had been sucked from the room. 

Will could feel a dull electric hum where his feet met the ground, as though a current were rooting him to the spot.

Slowly, with less certainty than Will had ever seen him move, and with a defeated sag to the set of his shoulders, Hannibal approached the desk, stepped around it, and peered at the glistening, split face of the seated body before turning away abruptly, overwhelmed. He passed a hand over his face, then stood staring at the empty corner next to Will for a very long time, gathering the power to speak.

Will - still folded into himself where he sat - couldn’t look at him. His throat hurt and his mouth was dry with terror. He couldn’t bear to see whatever expression Hannibal had chosen to wear for this occasion, because no matter what it was, it would break his heart. He couldn’t face Hannibal’s anger or disgust. And even worse, at this of all times, he couldn’t face another flawlessly blank countenance to remind him of the gulf between them. 

There was a gentle rustle of heavy fabric as Hannibal in his gray autumn coat sank to the floor to sit side-by-side with Will. Then, unbothered by the blood congealing up and down the length of Will’s arms, Hannibal shed the coat and draped it over Will’s shoulders, holding it fast even after Will’s shaking had subsided.

“What happened?” Hannibal asked with astonishing tenderness, and without accusation.

Until then, Will had been fairly confident he could keep it together in Hannibal’s presence. But at Hannibal's mild, simple words, Will instead let out a low animal noise partway between a sob and a groan.

He could feel Hannibal’s grip tighten over the wool coat on his shoulders.

“I hallucinated,” said Will, his voice rough and hollow. “I was on set. Then I hallucinated that I killed Cald - someone. But it wasn’t real. I know it wasn’t real. Then I lost time. Then this.”

When Hannibal remained silent, Will picked drying blood from his palms and stammered on. 

“I don’t know where I am, or what time it is, or who he was. I don’t know how I got here.” An ugly thought occurred. “I don’t know who else would know I’m here. Someone could’ve seen me. I’m going to...I’m going to have to call Chilton...call the police. It’s done; I can’t run from this.”

He raised both hands to his own face and found his cheeks clammy and wet - had he been numbly and silently weeping?

Somewhere near his shoulder, there was a sniff so quiet Will instantly questioned whether he head heard anything at all. Finally, he turned to Hannibal, and though the doctor clearly had not cried as Will had, there was an unfocused, raw shimmer to his eyes that Will had not seen before. Will felt the bottom of his stomach drop away.

“This was Dr. Sutcliffe, Will,” Hannibal murmured, lips barely moving. He was staring straight ahead instead of meeting Will’s gaze. “He was my classmate and colleague. And this is the clinic that provided your alibi for the Caldwell case. You don’t remember, Will?”

“Remember what?” It came out in barely a whisper.

“Sutcliffe was your neurologist. You had been seeing him for periodic scans. ”

Will’s throat closed. He felt dizzy.

“I don’t -”

“We wanted to eliminate the possibility of physiological causes behind your episodes.”

He had no memory of this. He racked his brain and came up with nothing. He had never seen the inside of this office in his life. The past few months had been a vague streak of traffic jams, on-set work, errands, and spending night after night tangled in cool sheets and in Hannibal’s limbs. No doctor’s office in that replay reel. Those bedroom images in particular stood out brightly and insistently from the rest, realer than the rest. Realer than the nightmare office scene before him.

Suddenly short of breath, Will gasped, “I don’t believe you. Don’t say that. Don’t - don’t lie to me.”

“There are records, Will. I can show you, if you’d like. They are filed away in my study.”

Will felt like he would black out. A soft darkness was creeping into the corners of his vision. He saw Hannibal as though through a lengthening tunnel.

“I -” he wheezed, and Hannibal said, “You butchered him like someone in your movie.”

\- - -

Will drifted in and out of himself over the next few hours, allowing himself to be handled and directed by Hannibal from the clinic to the Volvo and finally to the house in Beverly Hills in the dead of night. He did not return to full lucidness until the sky brightened to an eerie pre-dawn glow, and when he did, he remained prostrate in bed, weak with a kind of exhaustion that went deeper than muscle.

Hannibal rose before the sun, showered and dressed alone, then left Will to pad downstairs in slipper feet, as though he could not quite bear to be in a room with Will for long. 

Face pressed into his sweat-soaked pillow, Will rewatched last night’s memory reel, or what he remembered of it. Being pushed into a hot shower until his skin glowed pink and the water glancing off his body ran red down the drain. Hannibal’s deft hands working through the bloody knots Will had made in his own hair. Cool tencel pajamas being pulled over his head. 

And before all of that: 

Hannibal pulling Will to his feet in a darkened office. His look of concern tinged with disappointment. Dr. Sutcliffe’s exposed, shiny tongue beginning to dry under the icy blast of air conditioning. A Glasgow smile just like the kind Will’s _Ripper_ character left his victims with. Framed family photos on the desk of a beautiful blonde woman and elementary-aged kids.

“I should have anticipated this. But you didn’t tell me,” said Hannibal, still looking away, “about the extent of your episodes.”

“I tried,” Will had croaked weakly. “I don’t - I don’t know what happened here.”

Then Hannibal had turned to gaze right at him, eyes so dark Will could not make out the pupils. The doctor’s palm cradled one burning cheek, and Will leaned into the touch. 

_Interpret the evidence_ , Hannibal had said then, and Will swallowed the growing lump in his throat with great difficulty. 

In the present, Will whispered into his cold, drenched pillow. He could still feel Hannibal’s touch on the side of his face.

_According to the evidence, I killed Dr. Sutcliffe._

\- - -

Coat still clutched over his shoulders, Will staggered into the clinic waiting room and collapsed into a chair, Hannibal close behind. The doctor held something in both gloved hands that flashed in the light hallway light, then disappeared as he pocketed it: the murder weapon that had fallen, point down, into the carpet in Sutcliffe’s office.

His surprise must have shown, because Hannibal shushed him, knelt before the chair, and laid a hand on Will’s knee, gentling him. Instinctively Will felt that whatever was about to transpire would cause a seismic shift in their shared world, and he almost did not want to hear it.

“I can help you, if you ask me to,” Hannibal offered, and raised his other hand to loosely clasp Will’s.

Will gaped soundlessly. Shook his head.

“At great risk to my career and my life. You have a choice.”

Will hated choices. He preferred action so swift it could hardly be said that any thought had birthed it.

“You can tell them what you have told me here tonight and face the consequences,” Hannibal pressed on, and Will could hear the carefully balanced strain in his voice. “Or I can hide the body.”

\- - -

The decision was made quickly, instinctively.

Hannibal's expression went dark and flat. "We will need to be quick," he said. 

It would be light soon.

\- - -

__  
24 October 2013. Partial transcript from **Los Angeles local news**.  


_“...ordeal continues for the family of a Noble Hills Care Center neurologist who was reported missing several days ago. Dr. Donald Sutcliffe appears to have departed directly from his place of work, removed personal belongings as well as assets from the clinic, and driven out of city limits before leaving his car in Anaheim. While police do not suspect foul play, Sutcliffe’s family released a statement this morning indicating they believe he may be endangered. If you have seen this man or have information that could lead to his recovery, call [number redacted] to aid the community’s search...”_

\- - -

__  
25 October 2013. Slate.com.  


_“...Will Graham’s medical mysteries are again making the news after the disappearance of a prominent Hollywood neurologist from the Noble Hills Care Center, where Graham recently and famously received inpatient treatment for undisclosed ailments...”_

_“...strongly suspected by insider sources to be connected to psychiatric disorders...”_

_“...are reminded of Graham’s disturbing track record of apparently dissociative episodes beginning in late 2012, despite the insistence of colleagues and management that they were merely the eccentric wanderings of an intense and isolated individual...”_

\- - -

__  
26 October 2013. HuffPost News.  


_“...perhaps raise questions regarding the nature of Graham’s relationship with psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter, who has discreetly counseled celebrity clients in Hollywood since the late 1990s, including former Slaughterhouse magazine heir Mason Verger prior to his institutionalization...”_

_“... case of industry contractor Andrew Caldwell, whose brutal murder in the Hollywood Hills remains unsolved. Graham was briefly connected to the summer investigation before Dr. Donald Sutcliffe’s paperwork freed the actor from public scrutiny...”_

\- - -

The dullness of Beverly Hills suburban life took on a sinister tone after that. Dutifully Will watered the front lawn landscaping every other morning at first light, staring into the middle distance at the other blocky glass houses and camera-topped gates and palm trees rising like pillars above it all, and thought about the people who lived here and the things they kept to themselves. He thought about families like Dr. Sutcliffe’s, and the manicured picture of composed upper-class grief they projected during their occasional television appearances, and he thought of Hannibal Lecter and this great heavy secret the two of them now shared.

Hannibal Lecter, neighborhood psychiatrist, in the sharp, checked suits. Hannibal Lecter, patron of the arts, with his impeccable manners and his dinner parties and his unexpected, unexplained skill set that facilitated strategically disappearing a man so completely that the police assumed he had simply abandoned his family and hitchhiked from Anaheim to Mexico.

Most troublingly, after the first days of shock wore off and Will ceased to spend hours at a time sitting alone in silence, Will realized he had not been deeply marked by his sudden awakening next to Sutcliffe’s mutilated body.

It was the sort of thing that Beverly Katz would have opinions about - so, so many opinions. But as much as he yearned to pick up the phone and call her, there were so many insurmountable barriers to it. For one, it was moronic to think he could possibly share the finer points of this experience with her. For another, he wasn’t even sure if they were still friends, after such a long period of silence. And finally, Hannibal was suddenly everywhere, and Will found he could keep very little to himself when Hannibal was lurking around.

He was there when Will took Winston for walks around the neighborhood, and there beside Will on the couch as he scrolled idly through his phone and contemplated shooting Beverly a quick greeting. He drove Will to and from meetings at Chilton’s office, and - Will only found out secondhand through Franklyn - was working directly with the agency to plan out Will’s 2014 press tour in Europe for the release of the first _Ripper_ film.

Initially it felt like babysitting, and Will resented it. The purpose, he thought, was obvious: Hannibal was wearing his PR damage control hat, and was keeping a close eye on Will in the aftermath of the Sutcliffe incident. And then it began to feel like something else.

At the end of the month, Will took a small guest role in a du Maurier-written episode of a cable crime miniseries, and walked off set one afternoon to find Hannibal there too, having made an unannounced visit, seated with the producers and making small talk about Thanksgiving plans. 

He was there to take Will to a late lunch, he said, and whisked him away just as a wide-eyed, newly-arrived Bedelia crossed paths with them both in the studio lot. 

As practiced as Bedelia was at wrestling her features to do her will, her control slipped as Will flew past, and for a fraction of a second he could have sworn she’d turned up specifically to meet with him, then decided against it when she saw Hannibal. Then the moment passed, and Will spent the better part of lunch at Bouchon teetering back and forth on the edge of discovering that he loved Hannibal - he loved him and feared him and loved him and feared him, and after Sutcliffe - after hearing the sounds of methodical dismemberment in a woodsy area, miles southeast of Los Angeles near Anaheim - there was no separating the two. 

It had been a mistake, he thought, a gorgeous and terrible mistake to receive coaching from a man who could find it in himself to help Will erase the evidence of an unremembered butchering. 

Hannibal had made a mistake too, folding Will into his life like this, knowing how dangerous Will could evidently be when he lost time and stepped outside of himself.

_I can help you, if you ask me to._

Hearing it had made the hairs stand up on the back of Will’s neck.

He had thought it was from fear. What if it had been from a frisson of excitement?

\- - -

_CLOSE ON - JACK THE RIPPER_

_Two flat eyes stare dead ahead, breaking the fourth wall._

_QUICK CUTS between flashes of the barest suggestion after suggestion of great violence, as well as brief, sublime glimpses of natural beauty: rapidly opening flowers, the blooming of a blood drop in a glass of water, bleached white ribs pointing towards a bright, clear sky, raindrops on a pane of glass._

_EXT. HYDE PARK - DAY_

_AERIAL VIEW of grassy clearing, then:_

_ON JACK THE RIPPER - who becomes WILL GRAHAM - wearing corduroys and a sweat-soaked plaid shirt and looking around himself, confused._

_Camera tracks rapidly and disjointedly towards the two halves of ANDREW CALDWELL, mottled and gray, sitting side-by-side on a park bench._

_ANDREW CALDWELL  
(Whispered) “See? See?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S01E09 “Trou Normand”  
> \- "I can help you, if you ask me to"
> 
> References to S01E13 “Savoureux”  
> \- "interpret the evidence"
> 
> Misc season 1 references:  
> \- "See? See?" / Hobbs body hallucination  
> \- Andrew Caldwell  
> \- Sutcliffe's Glasgow smile
> 
>  
> 
> Unfortunately work is eating me alive so I'll be working in shorter bursts here and there - please excuse the choppiness, & thanks for your patience!


	17. Let them say what they want (IV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You slice the ginger." And a festive occasion gone wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E11 "Roti", S02E06 “Futamono”, S02E09 "Shiizakana", S02E10 “Naka-Choko”, S02E11 "Ko No Mono"

_ 27 October 2013. **Buzzfeed News.** _

_“...in leaked correspondence related to the federal investigation of this summer’s chain of grisly killings in Los Angeles, forensic reports reveal shocking details about missing organs from a number of recovered bodies...”_

_“...keeping them as trophies...”_

_“...psychological profile of the killer has yet to be released...”_

\- - -

Will jerked abruptly awake from an accidental nap in the early afternoon to find himself draped across a chaise. There was a badly creased script in his lap, and Winston was eagerly licking the fingers of his hand dangling over the side of the chair. His arm had gone pins-and-needles numb in his sleeping position, and he gently shooed the dog away to massage the tingling limb back to life.

Hannibal’s unsecured iPad still lay on a nearby coffee table after Will’s self-Googling exercises that morning. Various outlets had fixated on the curious web of relationships between himself, Sutcliffe, and even Hannibal, and several white tablets into the day, Will felt he was beginning to see something take form.

Suppose he had been seeing Sutcliffe for brain scans after all. Suppose Sutcliffe had found something. Suppose he had reconsidered the provision of Will’s alibi for the Caldwell case as a favor to Hannibal, and suppose that somehow, Will - in a fit of unconscious, unthinkable, transformative violence - had seen fit to dispatch Sutcliffe before he upset the relative peace and privacy Will had found. And hell, suppose Will had been the Hollywood Ripper all along, with his cover maintained solely by his ability return to bed - clothes spotless - in a timely fashion after each grisly killing for a full night’s sleep. 

It was as likely as it wasn’t. It was ludicrously laughable. And simultaneously - infuriatingly - it was all ludicrous enough to be true. After all, Will’s life had a funny knack of allowing absurdities to become realities. 

Will entertained his theory with a bitter, uncomfortable laugh for all of a second before the dinging of Hannibal’s tablet drew him out of that mystery and into another. 

“Hannibal?” he called out, though he was sure the house was empty. 

When no reply came, he unlocked the screen to find that Hannibal had received a notification for Will’s Instagram account - the one Chilton had forced Will to cede control over, months ago. Will had known Hannibal effectively ran the account now, but that wasn’t what was giving him pause as he frowned at the application on the glowing screen.

Six more musical _ping_ s followed the first, and Will opened his inbox to find a series of messages from Freddie Lounds. Instinctively, he took a screenshot and texted it to himself before clearing all messages and notifications from the tabloid reporter. Then he erased the text to himself and the screenshot itself from Hannibal’s camera roll once his own phone sang out in receipt of the file. 

_Not here_ , he replied back hastily, then deleted his own message, too. Freddie was smart enough to heed that instruction, although for good measure, he even blocked her...just in case her stubbornness won out. He had her number; he could reach her if he needed to.

Sure, this was shady behavior. But Will had a right to manage those messages as he saw fit, didn’t he? It was technically his Instagram account, even if someone else were unofficially running it. He wasn’t hiding anything from Hannibal. He wasn’t sneaking.

On his own phone, he pulled up the inbox screenshot and was immediately glad of all the precautions he had taken.

**> > looking at the photos you post of meals he’s made you  
** **> > he really has a hard-on for offal, huh?  
** **> > so does abel gideon  
** **> > but you know my thoughts on that  
** **> > CALL ME  
** **> > let me catch you up  
** **> > meantime: has he had any friends for dinner?**

Will let that marinate, torn between a reflexive burst of protective anger and a curious dread rising in his throat like bile. Memories of eating fake flesh on set as Jack the Ripper resurfaced. The spontaneous characterization had surprised and delighted the director. 

He opened a new text. Typed. Deleted. Started over. Deleted it all again.

Finally:

**> > that’s absurd and you’re wrong about him**

Freddie didn’t even bother asking who was writing to her. The reply was prompt and succinct:

**> > then why are you texting me?**

Furious and unable to pinpoint the object of his anger, Will tossed his phone aside to land with a soft _poof_ on the couch. This wasn’t a train of thought he needed to be entertaining. _Don’t feed the trolls._

A distraction was what he sorely needed: a change of scenery. Somewhere to be that wasn’t Chilton’s office or a wardrobe trailer or Hannibal’s aggressively and oppressively stylish glass box of a house. He was beginning to feel like a prisoner despite there being nothing to stop him from walking out the door. The leash staking him to the ground, he gathered, was merely a social matter: he didn’t go anywhere because he had no one to see. 

Will stared hard across the couch at the spot where his phone lay. He retrieved it, and opened and closed Freddie’s message a few times. He hated the dawning realization that he felt bizarrely lonely and suffocated enough to consider meeting with the journalist to hear her two cents, as insane as they might be. 

There was no one else. Hannibal had burned Will’s other bridges on his behalf. Thanks to his wendigo purchasing maneuver, Beverly had walled Will out for the foreseeable future. Hannibal was now managing Will’s schedule independently of Chilton’s input. And - admittedly this one was Will’s fault - Will’s stars-in-the-eyes, single-minded involvement with Hannibal all summer meant that he had never invested proper time and energy in his relationships with his colleagues. Then there was the curious matter of Bedelia du Maurier the screenwriter, who Will strongly suspected had been trying to share something very, very important for weeks now, and who would not divulge those secrets until the spectre of Hannibal’s presence was at bay. He was beginning to wonder if there was an aspect of design to this: if Hannibal didn’t want anything in Will’s life that he didn’t touch.

So. What now, was the big question. Boundaries and dynamics had to be renegotiated.

But renegotiating with Hannibal - technically now his accomplice - did not sound like an easy thing to do, especially considering the not-so-small complicating factor of what had happened in Dr. Sutcliffe’s office. How could he broach the subject of dissolving their co-dependence when Hannibal _quite fucking literally_ knew where the bodies were buried? 

None of this had been balanced from the start. This whole shitstorm had begun with Hannibal, well-connected and well-liked local pillar of society, assigned as unofficial therapist and handler to Will, a barely-tolerated, care-starved and lonely East Coast transplant. That power gulf - large to begin with - was now widening to the point of swallowing Will whole. As long as Will cared to harbor the Sutcliffe Secret, Will was at Hannibal’s mercy, and he and Hannibal were as good as conjoined.

Once Will opened that particular can of worms from hell, others followed.

Firstly: Will didn’t even know for sure that his hand had made the fatal slash. He was missing too much time, too many fragments of memory from that night. He shuttled back and forth at breakneck speed between the anguish of deep guilt and a certain righteous confusion and rejection of the deed.

Secondly: he could not puzzle out how Hannibal had found him, or how the man had come to possess such a questionable and specific crime scene-scrubbing skillset, without assuming the worst of his character. 

The more he thought about it, the smaller and louder his headspace became. He needed to get out, at least for a little bit.

In the master closet, he unearthed a hoodie, an old T-shirt, and a pair of sweatpants that he had hidden from Hannibal’s critical eye and therefore rescued from certain doom. He changed distractedly and did a double-take before the full-length mirror on his way out - he could’ve passed for his frazzled, heavily-medicated college self rather than the Brunello Cucinelli mannequin Hannibal had styled him into over the past months. Finally, as a last confounding touch, he added spindly, old-fashioned glasses - a spare set identical to the ones he had lost in Cannes. 

His outing began as an incognito coffee run. Caffeine sometimes had a clarifying effect upon his headaches. But instead of heading straight back home afterwards to skim scripts sent by Chilton, he missed his turn and kept moving towards the city limits, watching the buildings get shorter and the ground turn dustier.

Before could scrutinize the impulse too closely, he had winged a firearm safety exam at a training center and submitted an application, thinking about the sedan-driving night stalker, among other things even closer to home that he couldn’t yet bring himself to address directly. 

The man at the counter - really, a scrawny, gangly kid who looked like a college sophomore - peered at him strangely and expectantly, as though he had recognized Will from somewhere. So Will mirrored the man’s bad posture, leaned with his elbow on the countertop, and straightened his specs. The rest of the paperwork and process went through without a hitch. 

Will then left without concrete plans to follow through with the purchase one day. For now it was enough to have the option. 

His phone sang as he slid back into the driver’s seat. It was Hannibal (who else?), leaving a medical center downtown and asking Will if he could please preheat the oven and filet the salmon in a few minutes.

Shit. Will hastily threw the Volvo into reverse, got himself honked at by another parking lot driver with right of way, and waved his apologies. He sped home under cotton-candy skies shot through by the rapidly lowering sun, rehearsing excuses for his inevitable late arrival. By the time Will pulled up to the house, the gate was pointedly open, and the Bentley, already cool to the touch, was parked to one side of the drive to leave room for Will. And he still hadn’t cooked up an excuse that Hannibal wouldn’t immediately see through.

There were no lights on in the front of the house. The only sign of life was the distant sound of running water, which abruptly stopped and was replaced with the sound of metal sliding on metal - baking pans, Will supposed.

“Hannibal?” he called tentatively for the second time that day.

When there was no answer, Will unzipped his hoodie and hung it up in near-darkness, then approached a warm light like a beacon at the other end of the hall.

At the soft line where hallway shadow met the amber glow of Hannibal’s kitchen, Will leaned against the wall and paused, mesmerized. Sleeves rolled back, Hannibal was moving from countertop to burner to spice cabinet with balletic grace, coordinating the simultaneous preparation of several dishes and pausing only to wipe his hands with a towel between tasks. A beautifully fanned-out arrangement of brightly colored vegetables for stir fry lay across one cutting board, and on another, the now flawlessly readied salmon that Will had not arrived in time to filet. The heavy, nutty aroma of sesame oil filled the room - it had an edge to its warmth that Will could not place as he breathed it in deeply.

“Goji berries,” Hannibal said almost curtly, catching Will’s look. 

Caught, and feeling unreasonably sheepish, Will sidled in. “I, uh,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was driving when I got your text, sorry.”

Hannibal continued chopping bamboo shoots into fine golden slivers. 

“I went all the way to the pet store for Winston’s meds when I remembered I restocked last week.”

At that, Hannibal did glance up, but his eyes flicked to Will’s sweatpants instead of to his face.

“Never mind, Will,” he said with an incongruous lightness that did not agree with the tense set of his shoulders or his avoidance of Will’s gaze. “You’re here now. There is still much to be done, and now that I have my sous-chef, I can begin dessert preparations as well.” 

He spun away to retrieve a shallow wooden bowl of peaches from the pantry, revealing his tablet on a stand on the far countertop. Its screen was lit up with a recipe, but seeing the device connected a series of awful dots in Will’s mind. Fucking iCloud. He hadn’t thought to delete the screenshot of Freddie Lounds’s messages from Hannibal’s auto-synced cloud storage.

Had he seen the file? Maybe there was still time to pull it up and delete it. Wrestling his expression into self-conscious neutrality, Will watched Hannibal grind cinnamon in a stone bowl and slowly edged closer to the tablet without, he hoped, seeming to make a sudden beeline for it.

“What’ve we got here?” he asked innocently. “Hannibal Lecter caught using recipes. You mean you don’t walk through some kind of culinary mind palace and pluck ideas out of it?”

He positioned himself directly in front of the tablet, blocking Hannibal’s line of sight to it. Behind him, Hannibal let out a soft, indulgent chuckle despite the blatantly filler nature of Will’s not-so-clever quip. 

“We all require help sometimes,” Hannibal replied. 

“Speaking of - what did you need me to help with?”

Will made it as far as the Photos app before an unexpected hand on his shoulder made him jump. The tablet was knocked flat against the counter with a clatter, and Will spun around to find himself face-to-face with Hannibal, who had crossed the kitchen silent as a prowling housecat. 

But his eyes were unexpectedly soft and familiar, and for a moment Will thought he was off the hook until Hannibal swiftly and suddenly produced a blade from a knife rack and spun it - in the same hand - so that the blade was wrapped securely in his own fingers and the sleek black handle was aimed at Will. A pointed offering. 

Will looked from Hannibal to the knife and back to Hannibal again. His fingers closed around the extended handle. Hannibal held onto the blade a little too long.

“You slice the ginger.”

Will stared. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortably. Was that a fucking cannibal joke about Freddie Lounds? Had Hannibal - 

“There was a concerning photo added to my cloud this afternoon,” Hannibal said, retreating behind vagueness and formality, and abruptly turning away to mind the peaches, leaving Will with the knife clutched in his fist and the expanse of Hannibal’s unprotected back before him.

Grateful for the opportunity to react in privacy, Will froze, searching for something to say that would both explain and excuse the screenshot. But the screenshot wasn’t the problem, was it? It was the trouble he’d gone to in order to conceal it...poorly.

“I must confess I’m confused by your decisions and course of action following your exchange with Miss Lounds, if I am guessing them correctly.”

He was.

And Hannibal knew it, because he bulldozed on.

“Perhaps I was mistaken to assume that one possessing your experience with unfortunate rumors and distortion would extend to me a unique and sensitive courtesy in situations like those.”

Whatever hardness his tone lacked instead punctuated every other word in the form of the hollow fleshy sound of peaches being cloven against a wooden board with a blade. Then Hannibal raised and tipped the cutting board towards a shallow pan, and with a flourish he scraped a generous helping of perfectly even, golden half-moons into it. 

“After all, I am the only one trying to help you. You play the killer, Will, by getting into their heads. But you also let them into yours. After Sutcliffe’s office, it is imperative that you are monitored at home.”

“Sutcliffe’s office,” Will echoed in a strangled whisper. Then, more loudly: “Hannibal, I can’t spend my life tiptoeing around or answering for something I don’t remember.”

“How much more is there that you do not remember?”

Will was silent. He rounded the other side of the kitchen island to balance his knife over the ginger root that had been set out for him. On curious impulse, he turned the blade - just so - and looked down the length of his nose at the bright reflection that stared back up from the mirror-polished steel. Frowning, he watched his brows and eyes and nose slip from his face like rotting pomes dropping from a dying tree.

\- - -

In the days preceding Halloween, they did not speak again about Sutcliffe, because Hannibal was wholly occupied with whirlwind preparations for what was apparently a long-running party tradition of his that predated their relationship by nearly a decade.

There was something about this autumn holiday in particular that seemed to tickle Hannibal even more than the opera or the Whitney Museum of Art could. It presented endless creative opportunities to invent blood-hued drinks, hang up heavy velvet curtains, and unironically shop for fog machines online (with such purpose and earnestness that Will had to put his foot down and say, _There’s enough gourmet cheese in this house already_.)

Will was unreasonably nervous the night of the fete. He had allowed himself to be dressed in some sort of _Interview with the Vampire_ type Anne Rice getup, and the cascading white cravat knotted at his throat was warm and restrictive. And weighing heavy upon his mind was the knowledge that this was technically their first public acknowledgement of who they were to teach other. They were co-hosting a full-on party at the home they shared. There was no misreading that, and Will dreaded reading the inevitable and various forms of judgment he would see on the posh and cultured guests’ faces: _Hannibal Lecter took in a stray. Talk about out of Will Graham’s league._ Variations on those themes.

In a sea of Hollywood faces nipped-and-tucked to mathematically improbable proportions, he ducked and hid, ducked and hid. Used a mouthful of Venetian hors d’oeuvres as an excuse not to speak to Jack Crawford when he passed by dressed as Sherlock Holmes. Made frequent trips to the deserted kitchen for a breather here and there. Poured himself sangria after sangria from the carafes set out on every horizontal surface despite the growing tightness of his neckwear and the glowing heat in his cheeks.

It made Will deeply uncomfortable to be at Hannibal’s side, and it made Will deeply uncomfortable to be apart. One the one hand, he faced handshake after handshake with shiny-faced strangers at Hannibal’s delighted, beaming behest (“Have you met my Will? He’s leading Matthew Brown's _Ripper_ franchise,” with hand upon the small of Will’s back). And on the other, he faced the equally horrifying prospect of not knowing what Hannibal was saying to people about him, or what people were telling Hannibal of Will. 

He was running himself ragged with worry; that must be why he was feeling so physically uncomfortable, so feverish, so prematurely exhausted despite the obvious excitation of his heart beating hummingbird-fast against his ribs. 

Across the room, Hannibal was coolly nursing a flute of champagne and deep in conversation with Margot and Alana, who had come dressed as the Addams family parents. Hannibal seemed not to have dressed as anything at all, other than perhaps a slightly more extra version of himself, in a velvet smoking jacket the color of bordeaux wine. 

Seeing Hannibal in glorious profile and playing gracious host, warmly lit by candlelight and with his often too-focused gaze directed at someone else for once, made Will’s chest seize. It painfully and loudly underscored what was a rapidly ballooning puzzle of the head and heart for Will: if and how he could ever disentangle the thorny mess of uninterrogated motives and inarticulable attractions and repulsions that was his relationship with Hannibal. When it came to Hannibal, he was of several minds at once, seduced by a heady, heavy, complex mingling of need and fear as well as a genuine, lover’s admiration.

Hannibal: that flinty, fastidious creature. It was shocking how different he could look in the right or wrong light. Tonight he was a vintage silver screen star, and a few nights ago he had been a death’s head suspended in the dark, a Caravaggio walking off its canvas and through the bedroom door. Will suppressed a shiver of excitement at the memory.

No - not excitement. Chills were passing in waves down his body.

His face was hot to the touch. It had begun earlier that night as the kind of rising warmth that came with profound embarrassment, but it had lingered and was worsening and spreading. He could feel it in his forehead, could feel it lighting up the helices of his ears, could feel it plastering the ends of his hair to the back of his sweat-slick neck. Will swayed on his feet slightly, and scanning the room and finding no open chairs, he moved to the dining room with one hand braced on the wall.

A shortish, roundish figure blocked the path partway there: Franklyn Froideveaux, an expert in unfortunate timing, present sans Tobias Budge and dressed as an indeterminate pipe-smoking Victorian gentleman of some sort (“I’m Oscar Wilde!” he cried). With a flick of his dressing gown he began what Will cursorily gathered was yet another story about _accidentally_ running into Hannibal at Joan’s on Third, but he froze when Will doubled over, white lightning washing out his vision.

“Will?” said Franklyn cautiously, but Matthew Brown’s voice came out. Will saw a pair of gutted fish on a weathered countertop. “What’s happening? Where did you go?”

He felt himself being guided by helpful hands into a chair at the dining table. The sonic landscape around him had changed, had become hushed somehow, as though the room were holding its breath for him. More likely he had captured the attention of curious partygoers. 

His face still glowed hot but his extremities were ice-cold. He refused the chilled water Franklyn dutifully offered him in a goblet, and waved away the suggestion that he go upstairs and lie down. 

The dining room was cobalt blue. The walls, the accents. Will thought of his weeks-ago exchange with Freddie Lounds in the road on a moonless night, of the color detail that Hollywood Ripper suspect Abel Gideon had inexplicably known about this room. That piece didn’t fit anywhere in the puzzle - unless Will had been looking at all the other pieces wrong. 

He tore out of Franklyn’s grasp and bodily collided with two of Hannibal’s medical colleagues before reaching the entry hall where a gaggle of starlets were taking selfies with his wendigo. 

“Will?” someone called behind him, but his attention held fast to the back of the sculpture’s ridged, antlered head.

It was stepping off the platform. 

It was stepping off its platform, and as though stirring from a deep freeze, the creature arched its back and furled and unfurled long, knobby digits. Under ink-blue skin like stamped rubber, the bony architecture of shoulder blades and a ridge of spinal nubs shifted and strained. 

“ _Get back_ ,” Will bellowed in warning at the oblivious young actresses, voice low and rough, and the creature’s head snapped around to face him, revealing eye sockets so dark they could have been empty. 

There were two heartbeats of absolute silence. No movement. 

Then with a sickening, fleshy rip, the wendigo sheared in two at its distended navel as through split from within by a mighty force. The torso tipped forward and landed bodily on the polished stone floor, leaving both legs standing alone in the hall like twin pillars of classical ruins. 

Somebody - several somebodies - were holding Will back. He could feel - but not see - hands upon him, firm but not aggressive, and he could hear a chorus of voices asking questions. They were all going to die - he knew it instinctively - if he didn’t get them out of the path of the animated torso dragging itself across the floor towards them. It was lifting its head off the ground - mouth frozen open in a warped O - forehead smooth and high and alien - deep-set sockets sightless, propelled as if by smell like a shark cutting through bloody waters - clawing its way forward with rake-like, bony appendages tipped in pointed nails that left gouge marks like veins in the flooring. 

Roaring, limbs pinwheeling, Will broke free of his restraints and launched himself at the beast. His fists closed around both antlers - the creature made no sound - Will twisted hard with the full force of his bodily weight - and felt the reverberation of a snap - felt something warp in his grasp - then watched, to his surprise, as the room begin to spin and shake while he remained perfectly still, the anchored eye of a violent storm.

A cool, dry hand palmed his forehead. He smelled Hannibal’s aftershave, clutched at the velvet of his jacket, and felt his head cradled towards the doctor’s chest, the only mooring available in a trembling landscape shivered into streaks of light and shadow all around.

There was unintelligible yelling in the hazy, swirling background.

And distantly Will heard something like - sirens?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S01E11 "Roti":  
> \- seizure in the cobalt blue dining room
> 
> References to S02E06 “Futamono”:  
> \- the dinner party & burgundy velvet jacket combo
> 
> References to S02E09 “Shiizakana”  
> \- Will fighting the wendigo with his bare hands
> 
> References to S02E10 “Naka-Choko”  
> \- "You slice the ginger"
> 
> References to S02E11 "Ko No Mono"  
> \- in the show, Will gives Alana a gun for her protection, but in this universe he does it as a self-defensive precaution (which, of course, is far from an ideal course of action to take but I'm preserving the logic of the show)


	18. See the vultures circling dark clouds (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery, rifts, and rumination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E02 “Amuse Bouche”, S01E11 “Releves”, S01E12 “Roti”, S02E01 “Kaiseki”

_ 1 November 2013. People.com. Breaking Celeb News of the Day. _

_Actor Will Graham, 33, made headlines this spring and summer for a series of health-related troubles reportedly ranging from unexplained collapses to hallucinations [link: TattleTime, July 2013]. Late last night, Graham was apparently hospitalized following a private party in Beverly Hills - his second known inpatient stay this year._

_While Graham’s team would not specify the nature of his condition, we’re told it was serious. This morning, Graham’s agent tweeted from Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles that he was “so f*cking glad they caught this in time and that Will is alive and on the road to recovery.”_

\- - -

_The following is a sampling of tweets from the #GetWellWill, posted 1 to 3 November 2013._

_**Whatever it is, Hannibal will kiss it and make it all better amirite #GetWellWill** _

_**Is this why Hannibal Lecter was photographed in sweats the other day? he must’ve been really worried then lol #GetWellWill** _

_**Ok but when r we gonna talk about all of this guy’s issues, bc something seems off. But still #GetWellWill** _

_**Uhhh everyone browsing #GetWellWill needs to read Freddie Lounds’s article from this summer ASAP** _

\- - -

For a time Will was vaguely aware that he was drifting in and out of drugged, fitful sleep. In between visits to nightmare landscapes - pale, grimy bodies in tall brush, or the gaping face of Dr. Sutcliffe spotlit in a vast, empty room - he caught flashes of an IV stand, a vase of flowers, and overhead fluorescent lights. Everything smelled faintly of latex and of sharp, citrusy disinfectant. Occasionally he heard electronic beeping or, less frequently, the sound of quiet, sensitive murmuring, as though indistinct visitors were taking great pains not to wake him.

There were more conspicuous interlopers, too.

One of these was the mugshot of Abel Gideon, looking exactly as it had on the news weeks ago when he’d first been taken into custody for the Hollywood Ripper murders. The puffy, bearded face, which looked perfectly ordinary and would not have stood out from behind a butcher’s counter or in line at the bank, stared blearily at Will before breaking into a smarmy smile that failed to reach its heavily lidded eyes. 

“You’re a little peaky, Mr. Graham,” Gideon said, his voice as oily as his expression. “I may be crazy, but I believe you’re sick.” 

Sweating, shaking, Will could not dispute that.

Gideon shook his head. “Who is your doctor?” 

_Why isn’t he looking out for you?_ the unspoken question hung in the air between them.

The last of Will’s fever-dream visitors was the gaunt figure of his wendigo sculpture, reassembled and reanimated, looming eight feet tall at the foot of his bed and throwing long, spindly shadows across unfamiliar, waffled white sheets. It was silent as always, and Will avoided gazing into its sightless sockets, fixating instead upon the gentle rhythmic expansion and contraction of its prominent ribcage. With one long, skeletal hand it reached out to graze Will’s knee - 

\- and Hannibal Lecter’s concerned mien came suddenly and sharply into focus. 

He sported the slightest dusting of a five o’clock shadow, as though he hadn’t left Will’s beside for quite some time. His creased look of worry dissolved into a weak smile when recognition at last registered on Will’s face. The doctor sighed deeply and passed a hand over his face, which Will identified as one of his own nervous tics, repackaged and reenacted here by a different body, whether consciously or not.

Will pushed himself up on both elbows and made as if to speak, but was stopped by the press of a straw against his chapped lips.

“Drink,” commanded Hannibal, insistently but gently, and Will felt a rush of relief seeing that he was being fussed over in a hospital bed.

That answered a lot of questions.

Will drank deeply until the cup was drained of water, and the straw made empty sucking noises against the remaining clump of ice. Finished, he let fall his head against sweat-damp pillows and looked blankly at Hannibal, exhausted, knowing the doctor would find a way to fill the silence - as well as all the gaps in Will’s memory.

Instead, Hannibal unzipped an insulated bag sitting on a nearby counter and produced a round Tupperware container containing an amber broth. Lid popped, a curl of fragrant steam escaped from the surface of the liquid. Hannibal ladled a moderate portion of it into a bowl and presented it to Will on an overbed table.

“Silkie chicken in a broth,” the chef explained matter-of-factly, and was nonetheless unable to disguise his delight at getting to play caretaker once again. “A black-boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the seventh century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”

“You made me chicken soup.”

Hannibal paused. Blinked.

“Yes.”

As Will ate without delicacy, Hannibal pulled up a chair and watched intently. Sip, stare, sip, stare. This went on for a time until Will set his spoon down with a solid clatter. (Hannibal winced at the sound.)

Will said, “The sculpture.” It was a tacit question. 

Hannibal, with legs crossed and hands folded on his knee, made a gesture halfway between a shrug and a shake of the head, as though hesitating to tell Will the truth. 

“Destroyed,” he finally admitted. 

It was surprisingly painful to hear. Will had hoped his one remaining memory of the Halloween party - of wrestling the wendigo to the ground by its antlers - had been entirely an invention of his own fevered mind. But as it were, weeks of painstaking work in the studio had ultimately amounted to nothing. 

Well, not nothing. Months and months’ worth of gossip fodder, surely. 

“Sorry about that,” Will mumbled into his food, thinking of the five-figure price Beverly had charged Hannibal for the piece.

Hannibal cast his eyes down - almost demurely - and made a noise of polite dismissal.

“I’ve scared off all your fancy Hollywood friends for good, I’m sure,” Will added. “Having a fucking seizure in the middle of your party. Hope everyone at least got to take a doggie bag home.”

With a raised palm, Hannibal halted Will’s train of self-reproach.

“You were brought in with a 105-degree fever. Your white blood cell count was twice normal - and fighting encephalitis.” Then, quietly: “You have been ill and not yourself. You cannot be blamed for the episode at Halloween any more than you can be blamed for Sutcliffe - I understand that now.”

Will digested that. How had he not thought to check himself in earlier? How had the one actual medical doctor in the house not known to bring him in earlier? But Sutcliffe - that was the biggest question mark in his head right now. Sutcliffe’s office felt lightyears away. There was so much distance and such a difference in lucidity between Now Will and Sick Will that, looking back, he could not feel any continuity with the version of himself that had gripped the bloody knife before the neurologist’s in that gently swiveling chair.

He started to protest, but didn’t know how to begin explaining the wordless instinct that told him someone else had been in the room beforehand - someone he could not remember. Hannibal mistook his hesitation for shame masquerading as denial. 

“Your mind was on fire,” he assured Will. “You did not have any control over what you were doing, much less remember doing it -”

“What if I could remember? What if I remember how this was done to me?”

It came out more fiercely than Will had intended.

At the wary look on Hannibal’s face - quite plainly telling Will how paranoid he had sounded, blurting that out - Will deflated.

The ugliest possibility occurred to him: that the episode at Halloween had nursed and crystallized, for Hannibal, a general suspicion about Will that the doctor could have hidden out of courtesy until now. Will was losing Hannibal. Will’s grasp on this fledgling relationship, which had barely been given time to flourish, was weakening. 

“You believe them. The tabloids, the trolls...”

Hannibal pushed his chair back with a kind of finality that suggested he didn’t want to talk about this, and made a grand show of repacking Will’s emptied bowl, his utensils, and all his used tupperware. 

“I believe the Will Graham sitting across from me right now is incapable of that violence,” he offered casually. 

Will could practically feel Hannibal retreating behind that stupid clinical tone of his. 

“And I believe that for periods of time, you weren’t the Will Graham I know and love.”

_Love._

Jesus. 

Will went slack-jawed with shock. It was a few long moments before he remembered to close his gaping mouth. 

Ears burning and suddenly self-conscious of the shapeless paper sack of a hospital gown he was wearing, Will rubbed the back of his neck and prayed to God and whoever else might be listening that his ears were not, for once, lighting up to indicate his nerves. Everything was sparking and his stomach was doing uncontrollable somersaults. 

Not all of it was from enjoyment. Hannibal could really pick his moments, couldn’t he? Hell of a time to spring this on Will, and hell of a manner to do it in, too. The subtext was just terrific. _I love you, and by the way, I think you lost your mind and killed some people. But hey, I once helped you hide a body. Because I love you._

Hannibal, presumably used to Will’s emotional reticence and all his inner parsing and processing by now, did not press for a response, and instead gave Will his space. Before clearing out of the room to mind Winston in Beverly Hills, he pressed a quick kiss to Will’s temple while Will, stunned, continued to stare at his own knees under stiff, starchy hospital blankets.

\- - -

That night, piled into the passenger seat of the Bentley and still smelling disinfectant on all his clothes, Will returned to Hannibal’s palatial property in Beverly Hills. Stepping into the foyer felt like arriving at a hotel. Somewhere between Sutcliffe and the hospital, the house had ceased to feel like a shared home and reverted instead to being what it had truly been all along: Hannibal’s domain. Will felt a little naive now for having ever thought otherwise. And he felt the reverberations of Hannibal’s loaded, oblique version of “I love you” with every step down the main corridor.

So he returned to behaving like a guest again: using his own toiletries, punctuating dinners with stiff “pleases” and “thank yous,” and reducing the sprawl of his own belongings until much of what was Will Graham (dog figurines, fly fishing books, ocean watercolors) disappeared from Hannibal’s counters and shelves and into the lesser-used corners of the house (an extra study, the guest room, the sculpture studio).

If Hannibal sensed the shift in Will, he didn’t mention it or call attention to it - as was his wont. They simply went about their separate routines, only dimly aware of each other’s orbits. They made polite conversation, watched a Hitchcock movie together every now and then, and talked about work. It was as though they, too, had been reset to a point shortly after their meeting in Cannes, just as Will’s comfort level with the house had regressed.

The sudden and still so poorly understood estrangement was profoundly painful for Will, who wrestled bitterly with instincts and impressions and longings that pointed, unhelpfully, in all different directions. He hated that falling asleep tangled with Hannibal on the couch felt different now. He hated - as much as he was thrilled by - the layers and layers of meaning Hannibal could pack into the briefest of phrases. He hated their shared, bloody secrets, and he hated that they didn’t have more. He wished he’d never moved out of his condo - at the same time he wished this great glass house would swallow them both so they could live out their days together in a subterranean temple of unchecked codependence without interference or scrutiny.

He hated how distant Hannibal felt now, all the while knowing on some intuitive, pre-verbal level that the distance was healthier. That he needed to come back to himself. That he had yet to pick up aborted threads of communication with Freddie Lounds and Bedelia du Maurier before Hannibal drew him in again. 

He remembered, with a shiver, how Hannibal had looked at the photo shoot that summer in New York, framed by dead flowers and the bones of small animals.

He hated the unshakeable sense that he was being subtly puppeted somehow...and that he couldn’t even offer up the hard evidence to prove it, or to name the puppeteer.

“ _Who is your doctor?_ ” asked the rippling dream-visage of Abel Gideon’s mugshot, night after night.

Technically - Hannibal was Will’s doctor, wasn’t he? Hannibal was supposed to be his paddle, his keeper, his guide. And how well that had turned out. A new man was dead, and Will didn’t know why.

On a Wednesday morning, after Hannibal departed for a session with a high-profile patient, Will dropped by his agency - not because he had been called in, but for a change of scenery and to get out of the glass prison.

Chilton was standing on a stepstool when Will arrived, paisley-clad and partway through the task of mounting a triptych of blown-up magazine covers on the last remaining patch of bare wall in his office. He held a packet of 3M mounting strips in his mouth, so he nodded in wordless acknowledgment and motioned for Will to wait - which he did, raised eyebrows threatening to climb up and disappear into his hairline. 

“Don’t you have people who do this kind of thing for you?” Will drawled when Chilton at last stepped down to admire his finished handiwork. “Or has Franklyn declined in order to defend the last bastions of good taste?”

All three enormous mag covers featured Will’s own sad-puppy countenance, each shot at a slightly different angle under lights of slightly varying moodiness. 

“Someone’s got to put in the effort to keep you looking good,” said Chilton frostily. “Seeing as you seem perpetually bent on self-sabotage.”

There was a beat, and then Will grinned, dropping the pretense to let his rare good mood break through. So too did Chilton, who folded him into an unexpected (and overly perfumed) thank-god-you’re-out-of-the-hospital hug. 

Chilton had had an idea while Will was on the mend; that much was plain from the look on his face. The agent had a tendency to betray his excitement via the pursing of his lips, as though either smug or (and this was Will’s preferred theory) actually physically trying to hold the words in. Like Hannibal at the hospital with his tupperware and soup, Chilton made a great show of pouring brandy into twin crystal snifters. He then offered one to Will and raised his own with a gesture that was unmistakably a toast.

Will was instantly cautious. 

“What are we toasting? What deal with the devil is on my plate now?”

“The same deal,” said Chilton, all but beaming. “With the same handsome Lithuanian devil.” He flapped his hand at Will to indicate he, too, should raise his glass. “To your engagement.”

A fine brandy mist escaped Will’s lips as he choked and sputtered in his chair. Practically able to feel himself turning purple, he silenced Chilton with a raised palm until he had sufficiently recovered.

“Oh hell,” he managed to wheeze.

Chilton was undeterrable. 

“When you’re done with your spell here,” he traced a circle in front of Will’s face, “since you’re so determined to land yourself in the hospital again, I need you to be reasonable about this. We’ve got to offset the effect of your stay at Cedars-Sinai.”

Will launched himself to his feet, crossed to the other end of the berber carpet, and helped himself to one of the tiny glass bottles of artesian water that Chilton kept in his mini-fridge. He chugged it in one go. At his desk, Chilton twiddled his thumbs in mock patience.

“I didn’t realize I owed the public some kind of...redemption gesture for being sick.”

“Morally? Ethically? Course not. But it’s the way of -”

“The business.”

“Exactly. The metrics are all here.”

“Here” meant the enormous 20-something inch screen of the iMac on his midcentury desk, which he gingerly rotated for Will’s benefit. Chilton - or more likely Franklyn - had compiled a dashboard of web statistics that all seemed to generally imply that being sick for a week and needing to be pumped full of antibiotics had somehow caused a dip in warmth of opinion towards him. One or two sources, Will saw with an unpleasant flip of the stomach, had even raised the question of the missing Dr. Sutcliffe, speculated to have treated Will weeks ago. The internet did not love him right now - not even close. No sympathy points for being ill this time.

“It’s because they think you’re losing it,” said Chilton helpfully.

“I got that.”

“Really, really losing it. I mean criminally.”

“I said I got that.”

“Criminally insane.”

That last bit was pointedly emphasized with a somber-looking paper tri-fold that Chilton flicked across the desk at Will. Apparently the agency had received their first snail mail hate letter on his behalf that week: a brochure for a hospital for the criminally insane. 

Leaking news of an autumn engagement, Chilton reasoned, might seem like a disproportionate response to online hate, but he was a big believer in the concept of overcorrection. Just to be safe. Besides, the first edits of _Ripper_ footage were being churned out, and a teaser trailer was due for release over the holidays - a trailer that would flop if Chilton weren’t permitted to restore Will’s soured public image soon. 

Chilton added, “It doesn’t have to be for long. You can pretend to break it off before spring, when the full trailer comes out. Actually - let him break it off. You’ll score sympathy points. People love a broken-hearted fiancé.” 

With a long suffering sigh, Will promised to think it over and even broach the subject with Hannibal - after all, his privacy was on the line, too. A fake engagement was an extreme ask. Privately, however, the concept stung. This was one more reminder of the sudden uncomfortable rift between himself and Hannibal that Will didn’t need. 

Sensing victory would be imminent as long as he didn’t push the matter, Chilton gleefully shut up and joined Will on the client side of the desk to watch a three-minute rough film edit passed on by the production company. 

“Rough,” as it turned out, didn’t even begin to describe it - it was silent still, without added enhancing audio effects or score backing. The widescreen image was framed top and bottom by black bars covered in file names, studio watermarks, and a clock ticking up by the millisecond. But fifteen seconds in, none of that mattered, because Will realized what scene this was and was seized with a nervous spell of tunnel vision. Spine tingling, feeling phantom chills carried over from his days of fever, Will watched the Ripper split a man’s face from ear to ear, watched the jaw fall open against the throat, watched wine-dark droplets fly in slow motion from the bright blade. 

As he was in all his dreams, Will was transfixed by the horrific as though witnessing scenes of terrible beauty.

But this scene was alien. Watching it, Will knew he had never sliced a face open before.

So in Dr. Sutcliffe’s darkened office in the middle of the night, hall light on and air conditioning rumbling - who had? 

In his mind’s eye, the smiling mugshot of Abel Gideon asked again: “ _Who is your doctor?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S01E02 “Amuse Bouche”  
> \- Hannibal as Will's paddle
> 
> References to S01E11 “Releves” & S01E12 “Roti”  
> \- "You have been ill and not yourself. You cannot be blamed [...] I understand that now" adapted from a Will line  
> \- chicken soup  
> \- "You were brought in with a 105-degree fever" etc. - adapted from a Hannibal line  
> \- "I may be crazy, but I believe you’re sick" etc. & "Who is your doctor?" - actual Gideon lines
> 
> References to S02E01 “Kaiseki”  
> \- "Your mind was on fire" etc. - adapted from an Alana line  
> \- "I believe the Will Graham sitting across from me right now..." etc. - adapted from an Alana line  
> \- "What if I could remember?" etc. - actual Will lines


	19. See the vultures circling dark clouds (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ritual & a performance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S02E07 “Yakimono”, S02E09 “Shiizakana”
> 
> also hoooo boy, I'm back (kinda)! I'm super disappointed in myself because for a while back there, it looked like I was gearing up to sync the story timeline exactly with the real-time holidays, but better late than never --

_ 17 November 2013. Billboard.com. **“Will Graham just dropped a Spotify playlist and we are no less confused about him.”** _

_Ahead of the 2014_ Ripper _trilogy launch, actor Will Graham and his team have unveiled a Spotify playlist containing tunes presumably on heavy rotation at Graham’s home shared with celebrity doctor Hannibal Lecter. Some of the tracks are not so unexpected, and others are, well, baffling._

_We can picture the notoriously private Graham having quiet nights at home, sipping brandy to the gravelly, reflective sounds of The National (tracks “Terrible Love” and “Bloodbuzz Ohio” both make appearances). And though it is a departure from Graham’s unflashy, no-nonsense persona, baroque synthpop track “The Road” by British duo Hurts is nonetheless a fitting glimpse into Graham’s psyche, presumably as he works through the dark material that has become his career’s lifeblood._

_So what else is on this thing? A surprising number of classical pieces: Berlioz is here, and a fair amount of Bach, sandwiched between Ennio Morricone as well as Toto’s “Africa.” Toto, we imagine, could be an artifact of an Eighties childhood, but what of Graham’s apparent predilection for Morricone-penned film scores? Did he have a parent who was a fan of_ The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, _or is Graham himself a classic cinema buff?_

_It occurs that this futile attempt at musical personality analysis stems from a general lack of material upon which to speculate when it comes to Will Graham. Who are his family and friends? Where have his college artworks ended up? How did his upbringing lead him to performance and then to Sundance and Cannes? Comparatively speaking, why are there so few traces of his pre-stardom life, whether anecdotal or photographic? What draws him - again and again - to playing monsters on-screen? Is there any merit to the fierce discussion of his mental state lately?_

_Even while seeming coyly to court the public through well-placed statements and appearances, Graham has remained steadfastly tight-lipped on personal details, leaving us with little impression of himself beyond terse press releases on recent health scares, and a string of restrained, tortured performances in independent dramas like_ The Savage Hours _and_ Where We Were Going. __

_Suffice it to say this playlist reads like a tease. Graham is hardly open or public enough to “read” using this disparate grab bag of songs as an intertext . And yet the invitation is loud and clear: here it is on Spotify, here is Graham’s sad-dog countenance gazing forth from the playlist’s preview image, here is a collection of music so curated it appears not to have been cautiously selected at all. We are frustrated in all attempts to analyze, and so analyze we do._

_Maybe that’s the PR genius in this design. Thanksgiving is fast approaching, and as a pop culture writer, this year in my career I’m thankful for figures like Graham who keep me working. I love a celebrity who keeps us guessing, who is everything and nothing, and resists definition just enough to make us sufficiently curious to listen to a really, really freakin’ weird hour-long playlist._

_Happy listening!_

_Stream the playlist HERE or read the full tracklist below (...)_

\- - -

Texts between F. Chilton & W. Graham, 11:27 AM.

**> > weirdly, ppl liked your playlist**  
**> > so this is interesting but hear me out**  
**> > you’ve been asked to do a 1 pg interview + photo sesh as a “Cosmo Guy” for Cosmopolitan**

>> so this is interesting but hear me out  
>> no

**> > I already signed you on**

>> GDI chilton

\- - -

As the holiday season approached, Will settled into a pattern marked by anxiety and paranoia. In the late night, while Hannibal switched off the lights and tidied up before bed, Will would sit in the pitch black front room and watch for the old sedan that had stalked and plagued him before. Nothing. The watcher seemed to have moved on, or at least adopted an irregular schedule.

In the morning, shortly after Hannibal left on clinic duty or drove off to some farmer’s market or other, Will would place his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, feed Winston breakfast, and slip out the backdoor to visit the detached one-story guest annex - a smaller but no less boxy and aggressively stylish version of the main house. 

He had never really considered the building before, but now, the guest annex appealed to Will’s latent need to distance himself from the fact and memory of having bought a firearm. It posed the perfect conditions for the storage of such a thing: far enough that Will didn’t feel its presence, and close enough that he didn’t feel exposed. 

The house in the back had a little hallway connecting its living room and bedroom. There, Will would drop to his knees and peer between the slats of an air vent low on the wall, _Breaking Bad_ -style, to see if the small gun he had surreptitiously become licensed to own were still lying in wait inside. 

He made no mention of the little ritual to anyone.

The key - of which there was only one copy - was stored in Hannibal’s desk, and as far as Hannibal knew, Will had no business ever lifting and using them at all. So all Will had done was basically turn the guest house into an extremely large gun safe, one that Hannibal had full and rightful access to.

The absurdity of this situation as a whole really ground Will’s gears every afternoon. As he walked Winston, endured photo sessions, answered emails, and skimmed scripts, he silently stewed in his own unanswered questions. Who or what did he think he might need to fucking shoot? If he didn’t feel compelled to keep the gun close by, did he really need it to begin with? It would be a stretch to say he was afraid of Hannibal - so why hadn’t Will bothered to tell him he was hiding a firearm on the property? 

Curiously, the harder he thought about it, the more it became apparent that he was of two minds about Hannibal: one that clung to the doctor like a drowning man to a lifeline, and one that was on the verge of understanding something unsavory. Or maybe they were the same mind after all. Maybe Will understood already, and he was clinging and drowning nonetheless. 

So he told himself Hannibal had nothing to do with the gun in the annex. He was merely protecting Hannibal’s feelings and sense of safety by keeping the gun a secret. No need to make the man feel like their house was a fortress under siege, like they were being hunted in their home. He decided, a little too forcefully, that it was a precaution in case their nighttime drive-by visitor got intrusive. Until he knew more.

\- - -

One afternoon, he drummed up the courage to arrange a video chat with Beverly. She was more gracious than she needed to be - thanks in part to Will owning up to his role in enabling - fine, orchestrating - the wendigo sculpture affair. He opened the conversation with profuse apologies, still expecting her to let him have it. And rightfully, she did.

“You know it’s not even about you not listening to me about Hannibal, right?” she said, temple twitching slightly, visible even with her poor wifi connection. “It’s that I had some very specific worries about you calling up your past, and you sidestepped all of those concerns and found a way to make me ship Hannibal that creepy thing.”

Will glanced over his shoulder, even though he was alone in the media room and Hannibal was (presumably) downstairs prepping some kind of elaborate choux pastry sculpture for a neighbor’s baby shower, dusty with confectioners sugar.

“Shh,” he hissed, and dropped the volume on his computer by a few notches. Just in case.

Beverly looked affronted. She physically pulled back from the camera, eyes huge. “Oh, so now he doesn’t want you talking to me? You helped him lie to me - or he helped you lie to me, I don’t know which sucks worse - and you’re concealing the fact that we’re Skyping?” 

“It’s not like that, Bev.” 

“It looks a lot like that.”

“It’s because this is a sore subject,” he lied, hoping it was convincing enough to distract her from the truth that Beverly and Hannibal were two aspects of his life that he hoped would never touch. He couldn’t explain that instinct - it was just there, shapeless but loud and clear. “The hospital stay after Halloween - we don’t talk about all of it anymore. We messed up.”

“I’ll say.” 

In the background, there was a single dog bark.

“It brought up a bunch of questions, too. About how much or how little we each know about the other. Something’s a little wrong, Beverly. The closer I get, the farther I get.“

“Yeah, I know how that feels.”

“That’s - yeah, that’s fair. I really am sorry.”

There was a long, reflective pause...or maybe the wifi simply kicked out, because Beverly was very still for a time. Eventually, she half-sighed, half-laughed breathily in response, a sign that Will was in the clear for now. He went on, practically wringing his hands.

“We have isolated moments of clarity and beauty. And in those moments I can’t think of anything else outside of us.” 

He remembered Hannibal on his hands and knees next to a choking man in a restaurant, of making dinner outside on the patio together, of lying side-by-side on the still-warm roof of a car under the stars. The ocean, dark as the wine they shared, viewed from a patio in Malibu. Being pressed up against a street light outside LACMA at midnight.

“But outside of those self-contained snowglobes of time, we’re - he - there’s something else. There’s something I’m not breaking through. A pasteboard mask. I have a keen and hair-raising suspicion that he wants me to punch through it - like he’s goading me into it - and that I’m not going to like what’s back there.”

There was another fuzzy silence on the other end while Beverly processed this pared-down, defanged, and Sutcliffe-free version of events, presumably unsettled by what still appeared to be an unprecedented level of raw reflection that Will had offered. They didn’t usually share things like this with each other. Briefly Will even thought of confessing to Beverly that Hannibal had dropped the "love" bomb in the context of his breakdown and hospital stay after Halloween, but thought better of it. It was the kind of timing she'd tut at disapprovingly.

“Scylla and Charybdis,” Will added with a bitter laugh. “I want to stop keeping secrets and holding a distance, and I want to be someone he can be himself with. I want him to be himself. And I’m...worried what that self might be, once I see it.”

Beverly’s voice was distant and very quiet. “I wonder if,” she began, and stopped short.

“If what?”

“I wonder if it’s not him that worries you. I wonder if you’re terrified of what you might be if you see what’s past the mask and _like_ it.”

Will blinked and let that sink in.

\- - -

“Do you have any regrets?” Will asked one evening, emboldened by a round of drinks.

It was an incongruous and sudden probe, spoken over the sound of a crackling fire and the soft pinging of a teaspoon against porcelain. Hannibal was seated at his desk, poring over records and making soft notes in the margins with a gentle, continuous _scritch-scritch-scritch._

“Every time one is presented with a choice, once equally faces the possibility of regret,” Hannibal said vaguely but not absently. Will’s icebreaker had made him curious.

Will felt reckless, on the verge of experimenting with a discussion tactic that he had not yet tried with Hannibal: pretending. And seeing what unexpected truths he could draw out from Hannibal in the process of pushing all the right emotional buttons.

“Nice dodge,” he teased, aware he was poking unprotected fingers into the lion’s cage. “You can’t throw me off that easily.”

The corners of Hannibal’s eyes crinkled minutely.

“That remains to be seen.”

“Just answer the question. Look, I’ll go first: I’m riddled with regrets. Your turn.”

There was a long pause while Will waited for the _skritch-skritch-skritch_ of Hannibal’s writing to finally subside. When it did, the doctor was no less vague:

“A life without regret would be no life at all.”

Sensing that Hannibal would not give in to specifics until Will did first, Will caved with a grimace. He swirled the remnants of his scotch around in his glass and announced flatly, “I regret doing the film.” 

Meeting Hannibal’s eyes and finding nothing there, he tried again.

“I regret where it’s led me. I regret,” he braced himself and looked away, “what happened in Sutcliffe’s office.”

There was a heavy pause. It was the first time Will had willingly brought it up since his hospital stay, and something in the mention had piqued Hannibal’s interest - almost tangibly, Will thought. He couldn’t understand or unpack that particular brand of curiosity. It was like all those times over the summer when he had said something reckless or strange, and rather than risk scaring Will away from the precipice of honesty with any directness, Hannibal would instead make himself appear distracted by something else while he listened. He might rinse some dishes. Sort some papers. It was considerate in its way - and crafty.

Predictably, Hannibal set his tea down and began organizing the contents of his desk, trying to disguise the fact that his ears were practically pricked up.

“Then you were lucky I was there to help you deal with the aftermath,” the doctor offered mock-absently.

“Being lucky isn’t the same as making a mistake. Allowing myself to disconnect - that was the mistake.”

Hannibal stopped, considering this. Frozen over his open desk drawer, a leatherbound notebook in one hand and a magnifying glass in the other, he was clearly wrestling with the impulse to drop everything, settle onto the couch opposite Will, and turn this into a full-blown psychiatric session.

“Then,” he said carefully, “it is not the film, nor your conscious actions, that you regret.”

Will held his performance back, knowing this was the most delicate part: convincing Hannibal of his honesty, since openness did not come naturally to Will, and Hannibal knew it. He let out a funny sound, halfway between an uncomfortable, self-conscious laugh and a sigh of frustration.

“No,” he all but whispered, not meeting Hannibal’s eyes. 

The whiskey glass was refilled. Hannibal tracked the movement closely.

“I regret I haven’t fully become what I should’ve been - could’ve been, in my work, and that I missed my opportunity. In Sutcliffe’s office...I should’ve stayed in myself. Remained embodied. I should’ve remembered our sessions - about being present, about using that - that - feeling-”

He felt the cushion sink slightly. Unable to stay away for much longer, Hannibal had crossed the living room to join him on the couch. Will allowed himself to flinch, and Hannibal gently pried the whiskey from Will’s fingers and set the glass aside.

Hannibal’s face was very close, and his expression in the lamplight reminded Will strongly and dizzyingly of the moment in his driveway months before when he had, in a fit of instability and loneliness, leaned forward and kissed Hannibal in the summer heat. Will felt a flash of guilt that he was playing fisherman like this - but the feeling passed.

“Will,” said Hannibal, over-enunciating the first consonant in that wispy way of his. “You are saying...”

Unthinkably, he stopped short. Will Graham had rendered Hannibal fucking Lecter absolutely speechless for once.

“I’m - I’m saying,” Will stammered, “it’s not killing Sutcliffe that’s been eating at me. Killing Sutcliffe was not a mistake. Losing my mind in it - that was my mistake.”

He let himself glance up at Hannibal, then quickly away.

“I’m a well of regret. And that feeling is like a snake eating its own tail. I feel regret for my missed chances, and when I understand what those chances were - what they meant - I regret my own regret.” Inwardly Will cringed, but he had heard Hannibal spout phrases like that before. “I don’t know what it means that I feel this way. I don’t think I know who I am anymore. I don’t see an end to the guilt and the confusion.”

On instinct Will dropped his face into one palm and kneaded his own temples - an admittedly ham-fisted choice, but if there was one thing he understood about Hannibal, it was the man’s complete and total boner for someone else’s moments of heightened, unbridled honesty and unburdening.

“Now you know what kind of crazy I am,” Will croaked weakly through parted fingers. “Should’ve stayed away. All the tabloids were right.”

For a long time, only the fireplace made any sound, gently crackling away and tingeing the air with a gorgeously charred aroma. Hannibal was silent and still for so long that Will thought perhaps he hadn’t heard the last bit after all. He was mentally rehearsing a quip about expecting the FBI to be on the doorstep soon when Hannibal finally gave the kind of response Will had been terrified he would.

“You must shed the impulse for guilt and regret. Anticipating regret causes us to deny ourselves. It makes us less who we are. You must adapt your behavior to avoid feeling this way again.”

The doctor had settled into a different posture. Will suddenly felt as though the man were a foot taller and his eyes ten shades darker. Even the angle of Hannibal’s jaw and neck sat differently, and Will was reminded of a moment in a horror flick Beverly had once forced him to watch with her, when a perfectly normal-looking person had begun to smoothly incline their head to an inhuman angle.

“Adapt,” Will echoed. His blood was thundering in his ears. He was losing control of this exercise.

“Precisely. Adapt. Evolve. Become. And what is your art, if not the art of becoming?”

Then, as suddenly as the change had come over Hannibal, it passed. He rose to his slippered feet and adjusted the knot on his dressing gown, and when his hair - now free of whatever fancy European pomade usually held it in place during the day - flopped free, he looked absurdly soft and unthreatening.Will had to fight the impulse to laugh at how the breath had caught in his own throat moments before. It was as though Hannibal had shapeshifted twice in plain sight.

Will stood too, and straightened to meet Hannibal’s eyes. He was gazing at Will appraisingly. 

“You’ve changed your hair,” he noted, his tone betraying no opinion whatsoever.

“I, uh.” Will blinked hard, struggling with the absurd transition. Had he just imagined the conversation prior? “Yeah. I learned a, uh.” He mimed a whoosh movement over his own head. “Swoop, I think the stylist called it. For Cosmopolitan.”

“ _Cosmopolitan_.” Hannibal's distaste for the publication was palpable.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll need to speak to Chilton.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S02E07 “Yakimono”  
> \- Will's new swoopy haircut is a nod to the one that's debuted in this episode
> 
> References to S02E09 “Shiizakana”  
> \- conversation about regret  
> \- "adapt, evolve, become," etc.


	20. See the vultures circling dark clouds (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stalker, an unraveling, and a ruined Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: S01E08 “Fromage”, S02E09 "Shiizakana", S02E11 “Ko No Mono”, S03E06 “Dolce”, S03E09 “And the Woman Clothed with the Sun”
> 
> The Budge arc in this chapter is really the Matthew Brown arc from canon S2, reframed / reoriented. Also I truly hate writing dialogue and wish I didn't need to.

_Dark screen. No visuals. Conversation is audible, distantly, and as though heard through the sound of a slow, stable heartbeat: Will Graham’s._

_HANNIBAL LECTER  
The last of the guests had departed, all but one. I drove her home rather than disturb her chauffeur at this time of night. When I returned, the front window was shattered._

_UNIDENTIFIED 1  
That didn’t seem suspicious to you?_

_HANNIBAL LECTER  
Initially I believed it was a teenage prank. It happened to the Harrisons down the street last week._

_UNIDENTIFIED 2  
I’m gonna need you to describe the scene in detail, sir: what you saw when you arrived._

_Audio cuts back out._

_Gradually, flashing red and blue lights come into focus through the jagged gap where an enormous window used to be. Its sharp borders glitter in the changing light._

_CAMERA PULLS BACK slowly to reveal:_

_INT. HANNIBAL LECTER’S HOME - NIGHT_

_The living room is dim and unevenly lit; most lamps have been smashed or upended. There has clearly been a struggle: shards of glass litter the rug, chairs lie on their sides, and one end of a coffee table has collapsed, legs cleanly splintered as though under the weight of someone’s fall._

_Every now and then there is a white flash of light - a photo being taken. Evidence._

_WILL GRAHAM sits on the arm of a couch, staring into the middle-distance. A bright orange shock blanket is draped loosely around his shoulders. Whatever clothing we can see under the blanket is dark and slick in patches. He clenches and unclenches one bloodied fist repeatedly, face betraying no signs of pain, anxiety, or fear._

_Everything but Will is in swift motion: uniformed officers taking notes, curious neighbors outside gathering beyond the police car barricade in the drive, and Hannibal himself, pacing around the room, upset._

_Will glances aside. We are suddenly aware of a fine spray of bright red dusting one side of his face._

_CLOSE ON: a long streak of spilled blood on the rug, terminating underneath a sheet of plastic blanketing a lifeless form._

_SOUND RETURNS. A cell phone is ringing. Glass crunches underfoot. Restrained by an officer, WINSTON barks until Will looks at him sharply and gives a single shake of the head._

_HANNIBAL LECTER  
He is clearly in shock - if the statements are finished, please allow me to take him to a hospital._

_OFFICER 1  
Sir, we’re talking to HQ - it’s a possibility we’re gonna have to take him into custody._

_HANNIBAL LECTER  
Then as a doctor I would recommend he be placed under watch at a medical facility. At least overnight._

_OFFICER 2  
And deal with camera crews staking the place out? We can’t lock down a hospital for a case like this. Short notice, high profile._

_OFFICER 1  
And it’s fucking Thanksgiving._

\- - -

IN THE WEEKS BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

As it turned out, it was the connection to _Cosmopolitan_ that had given Hannibal pause, not Will’s swoopy new hairstyle itself. Shortly after Will’s moderately embarrassing Cosmo Guy feature (for which Chilton supplied ghostwritten answers to thought-provoking queries like “spill your favorite sex position!”), Hannibal made a brief and terse phone call that presumably would mark the end of Will’s more inane press engagements.

Will didn’t think to style his hair for two days after that. It simply took up too much of the morning, and he’d rather his grooming rituals not cut into Winston’s first walk of the day. But then one morning, he took his seat at the breakfast table to find a men’s lifestyle magazine open to a full-page photo from the Cosmo feature. 

“Best Men’s Hairstyles to Try in 2014,” it declared below Will’s face in a confident , stylish serif font. It was the largest photo in the entire spread, dwarfing even snaps of Chris Pine and well...all the Chrises there seemed to be in Hollywood these days. 

When Will raised his narrowed eyes to Hannibal’s face, suspicious, the doctor was busy sawing his Belgian waffle into pieces. Subtle. 

So the Swoop returned - and stayed - since Hannibal had all but insisted upon it in his quiet, oblique way. 

“You know,” Will reflected absently one morning as they brushed their teeth side-by-side, “I like the Swoop. It completes the before and after. I can just _see_ the split-screen, tabloid style.”

Hannibal paused, swished, spit delicately. “Of what comparison?”

“Before you and after you.” 

He flashed Hannibal a lopsided smile and left him alone in the bathroom with that thought. Hannibal didn’t lag behind for long. Soon, Will found himself grinning widely, crushed into the mattress in a strong embrace with teeth at his earlobe.

\- - -

__  
15 November, 2013. Just Jared. “ **Will Graham and assistant touch down in Seattle.** ”  


_Actor Will Graham and assistant Franklyn arrive at Sea-Tac airport ahead of the Microsoft Studios celebrity gaming event and release party for the Ripper trilogy’s first XBOX tie-in game. (PHOTOS AFTER THE JUMP)_

\- - -

__  
17 November, 2013. Just Jared. “ **Hannibal Lecter gets Thanksgiving-ready.** ”  


_Hannibal Lecter, celebrity psychiatrist and unconfirmed partner of Will Graham, heads to a salon in Beverly Hills to get holiday-ready without his honey. Lecter looked lonely but slick in Tom Ford, and emerged with a new, barely-discernible trim. (PHOTOS AFTER THE JUMP)_

\- - -

__  
18 November, 2013. Just Jared. “ **Will Graham screens ‘In the Company of the Dead’ in Denver." __** __

_Will Graham, still sans a date, attends a special screening of Alana Bloom’s new drama In the Company of the Dead at a film festival in Denver, Colorado._

_At a press conference back in October, director Bloom told Variety that she and her Golden Globe-nominated cinematographer conceived the film’s distinctive visual style based using details from the director’s longtime friendship with former sculpture artist Graham. Graham declined to comment on the inspiration. (SCREENING EVENT PHOTOS AFTER THE JUMP)_

\- - -

__  
20 November, 2013. Buzzfeed. “ **You can now buy your very own piece of creepy Will Graham memorabilia, thanks to...reality TV?** ”  


_We never thought this was a thing that could happen in real life, but sometimes, worlds collide and there’s just nothing we can do to predict it._

_The Komeda family matriarch and momager has debuted a home decor line including miniature versions of a freaky sculpture that sources say are patterned after a piece from actor Will Graham’s storied (and still mostly hush-hush) history as an artist._

_We have a lot of questions about how Komeda even came to know Graham in the first place, and even more questions about why she decided to birth this particular product to begin with. (What’s the target audience???) But in the absence of those answers..._

_Need a skeletal, antlered ghost-man to personalize your workspace and give HR something to talk about? Want a paperweight that can easily double as the stuff of your nightmares? Stumped about what to get your preppy new neighbors as a housewarming gift? Have a general desire to make people ask a lot of questions yet never answer your calls or texts? These mini wendigos are the perfect thing!_

_The 9-inch desktop version can be yours for $80, and for the truly aesthetically adventurous, a 28-inch version is available for the totally reasonable price of $198._

\- - -

__  
21 November, 2013. Just Jared. “ **Hannibal Lecter stocks up on Thanksgiving essentials.** ”  


_Dr. Hannibal Lecter is everywhere these days without Will Graham - today the doctor to the stars stepped out in L.A. to pick up orders of aged meats and a few luxe bottles of wine, presumably for upcoming festivities. What’s that label? We think this is a pricey Batard Montrachet. Nothing but the best for this gourmand! (PHOTOS AFTER THE JUMP)_

\- - -

THE WEEK BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

“What do you think they do when we’re away on business?” Franklyn said, dimming his iPad screen.

Will’s interactive press calendar and all its colorful blocks and indicators plunged into mirrored darkness, and with them, any remaining hope Will still had of an undisturbed flight.

“Do you think they go to the farmer’s market together? Check out art exhibits? Work out? See an opera? They both love the opera. Ah, you know what - Tobias needed a new pocket square. I bet they went to Rodeo Drive.”

Franklyn gave Will a too-familiar elbow bump, as though the conclusion he’d just independently drawn were perfectly obvious.

Will had learned the hard way a very long time ago that Franklyn had an aggravating knack for emotionally inflating barely-there acknowledgment or passive listening into earnest validation, or worse, collaboration. If he didn’t put a stop to Franklyn’s daydream right away, Will could look forward to receiving an email invitation to a pre-booked double date at Catch LA before tomorrow.

Besides, his ears popping and eyes burning at however many thousand feet in the air, Will was in no mood to indulge Franklyn’s imagined scenarios of camaraderie between Tobias Budge and Hannibal Lecter, a pair that, as far as Will knew, had never encountered each other on this side of the country. He massaged his temples, regretting the decision not to shoot down Franklyn’s request to sit right next to him in a two-person first class row on the way back to LAX.

“Franklyn,” he said, schooling his voice into careful neutrality to avoid hurting anyone’s feelings. “They don’t really know each other; I doubt they hang out without us. They don’t even hang out _with_ us.” What was he saying? “For that matter, you and I - we don’t - there’s no hanging out, Franklyn.”

But the man was undeterrable. 

“I wish Dr. Lecter would hang out with me. But he has so much more in common with Tobias than he does with me. I bet Tobias could give him a mean haircut, they have the same taste. He’s working at a new salon in the Hills now - George Clooney came in the other day. I know George and Dr. Lecter were friends years ago. Do you ever worry you and Dr. Lecter don’t have anything in common? I worry all the time that I’m not sophisticated enough for Tobias. I mean, I think I’m sophisticated but maybe not in the specific ways he needs. And I just wondered how you and Dr. -”

Will shot him a sidelong glare.

“Sorry.”

\- - -

FIVE DAYS BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

They were at their best - Will thought in the checkout line at Joan’s on Third - when they’d had some time apart.

It wasn’t because theirs was the usual trite case of absence making the heart grow fonder - far from it. Rather, the more consecutive days he spent alone with Hannibal, the more he felt a disconcerting blurring of the boundaries between them, as though they both lost the will and desire to interact with the world outside each other. They didn’t even have to speak sometimes. They simply existed in each other’s close orbit, always aware of the other as a humming pulse of energy, always pulled gravitationally toward the other, like two parts of a binary star. And the longer this went on, unbroken, unmitigated, the more Will felt himself losing grip on the righteous anger and investigative drive that he had nursed just weeks ago in a fit of recklessness.

In his time away, he’d had plenty of time to think, plenty of time to puzzle shit out. Thanks to his drawn-out, pre-Ripper press tour of screenings and launches and openings, Will was close to certain that Hannibal - a doctor, after all - had known about his encephalitis that summer, and had seen fit to conceal the diagnosis for still-uncovered reasons. Otherwise nothing added up. 

And it wouldn’t do, would it, if the impulse for self-preservation and retribution got buried under Will’s much stronger desire to turn a blind eye to all the curious events of all the months before in order to remain darkly and deeply entangled with that strange and seductive man. 

True to his patterns, Hannibal was eager to resume their symbiosis immediately upon Will’s return. It was up to Will, then, to find excuses: an errand here, a publicity engagement there, or an occasional coffee with Margot Bloom.

On this particular occasion they had split up their Thanksgiving dinner errands and prep tasks. Will was on an uncharacteristic cheese run, squinting at a sheet full of Hannibal’s delicate script and trying to decipher all the French, while Hannibal stayed home and completed guest place cards (with fucking calligraphy).

The blissfully interruption-free cheese run was shattered by what in retrospect was a perfectly predictable encounter with Franklyn Froideveaux, who was discernibly in a bad way and barely containing it in public. 

They made eye contact from opposite ends of the cheese counter, and though Will quickly looked away, the hollow expression on Franklyn’s unshaved, sallow face told him an uncomfortable conversation would follow. Franklyn sidled down the length of the counter to come to a pause by Will’s side, practically elbow-to-elbow.

“I need to talk to you,” he said quietly out of the corner of his mouth, as though imitating something he’d seen in a spy movie. “I had to get out of the house and...and distract myself. But you being here, that’s a sign.”

The fact that Franklyn hadn’t opened with some bold declaration of being “cheese folk” put Will on edge. 

“It’s Tobias,” Franklyn continued, clutching the handle of his shopping basket so hard his knuckles were going white. “He’s been saying that no one really understands him, and saying very dark things about his past in New York, people who went missing...then saying just kidding. A lot. So I Googled ‘psychopaths.’ Went down the checklist and was a little surprised how many boxes I checked. He’s been gone a few hours now and he’s not answering my calls or messages. I think he’s run off to find the person he thinks is really gonna get him, and I’m scared he’s gonna, I don’t know. Do I need to report this?”

But none of that connected to Will, who couldn’t see why Franklyn had singled him out to be the recipient of these news - unless - 

“Remember - how we were talking about having stuff in common?”

Will’s heart stopped. 

“Tobias has it in his head that he needs to see Dr. Lecter. He thinks Dr. Lecter’s his person; he’s been talking about him nonstop: about where he goes, what he does, who he sees...apparently they talked last week at the salon? And last night I found bookmarks and bookmarks on his computer of all these Just Jared posts about Dr. Lecter - you know, while we were on your press tour. Which really hurts me because I thought Tobias and I had something great -”

The flow of Franklyn’s heartbreak - misguided, for Budge’s obsession was almost definitely not romantic - was cut short by Will’s sudden grip on his upper arm. 

“Have you called the police?”

“No - I - it’s Tobias, I don’t want anyone to hurt him, and I don’t even know for sure if -”

“Franklyn,” Will boomed, surprised by his own authority. Several nearby shoppers whipped around to stare daggers at him. “Does he know? _Does he know where Hannibal lives_?”

When Franklyn did not immediately reply, Will shook him slightly.

“Yes,” the assistant admitted in a squeak, shrinking back. “He asked me ages ago and I told him. I was so excited to go to the Halloween party, Will! I never really get invited to those society things, you know - it was like I finally got to show off -”

But Will had released his basket, leaving it in Franklyn’s free hand, and was sprinting away, phone at his ear, trying to reach Hannibal at home. There was no answer. _Some would kill for a friend like that,_ Tobias Budge had said, unprompted, in New York City that summer before relocating across the country on a whim. 

Will broke three minor traffic laws getting home and pulled up in front of the house just in time to find Tobias Budge already there, pristinely turned out and sitting calmly on the top doorstep, feet apart, both hands on his knees in a stiff, formal pose. His long dark car, hearse-like, was parallel parked along the curb.

Eyes on Budge, Will approached slowly from the car, his stance careful and catlike in case of a sudden altercation, recalling his on-set combat rehearsals. This seemed to amuse Budge, who blinked leisurely and made no move to rise. 

“He’s not home,” Budge said, almost singsong. Catching a sideways glance from Will, he added, “And neither are your neighbors. I see Franklyn gave you my message.”

“Get off the property, Budge,” Will said levelly. “And if you go looking for Hannibal, you should know you left a trail. The police will figure you out.”

“Let them.”

“You want to be caught?”

“I want them to try.” Budge shifted slightly, and Will fought the instinct to take one step back towards his car. “They may question me because of Franklyn’s loose lips. Then I would find Franklyn, kill him, and disappear.”

Will thought of Franklyn, and of how he had looked back at the cheese counter, puppy-eyed and disheveled and genuinely brokenhearted at the disintegration of what had probably seemed to him a perfectly rare and fulfilling relationship. The idea of his death was unbearable in this context - a horrible insult following on the tails of the ultimate injury.

“Don’t kill Franklyn.” It came out like a warning. Or a threat.

But for all his efforts and his posturing - shoulders squared, eyes hard, voice even - Will couldn’t seem to convince Budge of his hardiness, as though Budge could plainly read the performance and pretense behind it. Even in his present situation, his actor’s pride still felt the wound. 

Entirely unthreatened, Budge busied himself picking a loose threads off his waistcoat. “I’ve been looking forward to it. Actually, I’m glad you’re here to wait with me for Dr. Lecter.” 

He glanced up coolly at Will, straightened, and stood, gauging the reaction.

Will’s heart - and mind - raced. Budge appeared unarmed, but the options remained slim nonetheless. He could lunge for him now, but if Will lost his phone in the struggle, it was game over. Everything depended on holding Budge long enough for Will to contact the police. Suppose he gave Budge a fake location tip-off and let him and drive away looking for Hannibal, whose whereabouts he clearly didn’t know - there would be time enough. Or he could follow Budge in the Volvo, or ram the other car, or warn Hannibal somehow. But all of that assumed Budge wouldn’t simply eliminate Will on the spot, just one more name on the checklist that already contained Franklyn’s and Hannibal’s. 

A sudden, pleasant tritone punctuated the air between them. A beat, and Budge’s gaze went straight to the phone in Will’s front pocket, then pointedly back up to Will’s eyes.

“Are you going to read that?” he asked, voice like syrup and heavy with intent. His hand went into a pocket and Will read the gesture clearly enough. If he didn’t share the message, Budge would make him.

He drew the phone out and scanned the message on the lockscreen. It was from Hannibal. Will swallowed what felt like his own heart, stuck high up in his throat.

**I apologize for missing your call,** said the message. **I am finishing up at the office soon - emergency session.**

“Well?” prompted Budge.

He could just delete the message, warn Hannibal, zip his own lips, and face the consequences here with Budge. Whatever happened to him, Hannibal would then be on his own. His thumb hovered over the screen. 

Off a strange look on Budge’s face, Will reconsidered. 

The way the mask of Budge’s expression sat gave something away. Something in the tension of the muscles, the brightness in the unblinking eyes. A disguised eagerness. There was a question he wanted Will to ask.

“You know something,” Will murmured hoarsely.

“I’m not going to kill Hannibal,” Budge promised. 

There was going to be an explanation, Will could tell, and he wasn’t going to like it.

“I’m not going to kill him because I saw the two of you. I followed his car one night. From a doctor’s office. Out of town. But I don’t need to tell you that part - you were there, even if you seemed a little fuzzy and far away - hiding the cargo with him. And here we all thought the missing neurologist from the news had hitchhiked from Anaheim to a new life in Mexico.”

Will’s scalp, his face, his palms, had all gone pins-and-needles numb. He heard Budge’s honeyed voice as if from underwater.

How quickly his options had changed. He felt the hand not clutching his phone like a vise tightening independently into a fist. 

He had imagined crisis scenarios before, pushing an idealized mental avatar of himself through dire situations and difficult choices - that tended to come with the territory of frequently playing tortured men in gritty films. But that daydream version of Will had always walked a righteous path: tackling shooters, strong-arming carjackers, foiling the occasional serial killer. At the moment he was, instead, contemplating how best to protect a man who had hidden a mutilated body on his behalf, so late at night it verged on early, and with such deftness and efficiency that it had made Will’s stomach turn and his pulse flutter.

“Reckless,” whispered Will, to no one in particular, tasting bitterness in his mouth.

“I’m not going to tell anyone what I saw him do, and do well. So my recklessness doesn’t concern you.”

“It concerns me,” Will forced through gritted teeth, “because you won’t be drawing attention just to yourself.”

He had come face to face with Budge - had tossed his phone into the grass - had stormed up the path to the porch and put a finger in the man’s face - spit flying, face screwed up in a violent fit. When had that happened? Between blinks he was losing track of his own limbs and movements. Whatever was happening, Budge was sensing it too. The tension of his face had slipped minutely, and though he had not flinched in the face of Will’s sudden outburst, he was appraising Will differently, mouth slightly open in slow realization.

All he said was: “Interesting.”

Will blinked hard. 

Budge’s face was a marvel to watch as the pieces aligned in an uncomfortable mosaic, and it dawned upon Will that, in his own way, Budge was reading him the way Will read others as he mined their unspoken histories and habits for his work. 

“I’ve read the more incriminating thinkpieces about you,” he mused appreciatively, “but they’ve only scratched the surface, haven’t they?”

He sounded absolutely tickled, and it riled Will. 

“Careful,” he warned. 

This time, Budge reacted. 

“Very good. The Academy will believe that one. But perhaps delay my strangulation - I can see it in your face - just a little longer. Because the most fascinating thing I learned from following your Dr. Lecter isn’t how he swooped in to save the day and disappear your neurologist’s body. That isn’t why I want to get to know him, to pick his brain. You see, Will, he arrived at the clinic before you.”

\- - -

Will weighed it all then, like an Egyptian god with supernatural scales: all the uncertainties and lies and unanswered questions, the hallucinations and pains and missing moments, the coaching and prodding and puppeting, the overstepping of boundaries Will hadn’t even known he had; and when those were measured, he recalled interventions he hadn’t asked for - omitted or invented truths about missing persons and doctors and clinics and alibis - and most of all, he remembered Hannibal in the aftermath of Sutcliffe’s butchering, a memory he largely resisted interrogating.

\- - -

_“I can help you, if you ask me to.”_

Act one, the benevolent offer of protection, of an easy way out.

_“At great risk to my career and my life.”_

Act two, the introduction of danger, of complications and collateral damage.

_“You have a choice.”_

Act three, the illusion of the power to decide. The displacement of responsibility.

And through all three acts, a steady, grounding touch on the shoulder, on the hand, on the cheek - light and warm and with soothing pressure.

\- - -

“What is it going to be?”

With an open palm, Budge gestured to Will’s phone, where it lay in the grass.

This time, Will’s power to decide was not an illusion. He made his choice without knowing how events would ripple from it - whether he would wind up dead, or Hannibal, or Budge, or if all would somehow be blown wide open and the strange, snow-globed world that was Will’s life with Hannibal would disintegrate.

“He’s at finished the office,” Will told Budge, and heard it as though from outside of his own body. “It was an emergency session - he’ll be there alone.”

\- - -

__  
23 November 2013. TMZ. “ **BREAKING: STALKER THREATENS CELEBRITY SHRINK** ”  


_Hollywood psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter had a narrow brush with death today while working alone at his Beverly Hills practice while staff had their Saturday off._

_Armed with a garrote, an intruder trapped Lecter in the room before a brief struggle ensued. The intruder’s partner, citing strange remarks and stalking behaviors, made an emergency call, and police arrived on scene as the intruder evaded arrest. He is currently at-large and still believed to be within Los Angeles County limits._

_The intruder’s name has not yet been released. Lecter’s rumored boyfriend, Will Graham, could not be reached for comment._

_UPDATE 6:54. Lecter admitted to local medical center for minor injuries on outpatient basis._

_UPDATE 7:22. Photos after the jump of a hoodie-clad, incognito Will Graham arriving at medical center._

_UPDATE 10:16. Police sketch of intruder, now confirmed to be Tobias Budge, 35._

_If you know any details of interest that could help with this case, please contact police at [number redacted] [...article continues...]_

\- - -

_23 November 2013. Various public tweets._

_**WHAT THE SHIT IS HAPPENING IN LA THESE DAYS** _

_**NOOOO anyone know if hannibal is ok???** _

_**Sorry for tinhatting but could this have been a PR stunt for the movie?** _

_**I’ll fuck up anyone who messes with my OTP** _

_**Can we please take this seriously and stop talking about OTPs (1/2)  
because this isn’t entertainment, someone could’ve died today (2/2)** _

_**Will Graham & co seem like they have the worst luck in Hollywood, poor guy** _

_[Tweet with no text, just a pap photo attachment of Will Graham walking with Hannibal Lecter. A heart has been drawn around them using Paint.]_

\- - -

16 missed calls to W. Graham:

6:09 from Franklyn  
6:11 from Franklyn  
6:12 from Franklyn  
6:14 from Franklyn  
6:28 from Hannibal  
6:51 from Chilton  
7:06 from Franklyn  
7:15 from Chilton  
7:19 from Chilton  
8:23 from Margot  
8:35 from Chilton  
9:01 from Bev  
9:07 from Bev  
9:12 from Bev  
9:17 from Bev  
9:30 from Franklyn 

\- - -

BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

In the days after the Budge incident, as Chilton delicately referred to it, Hannibal granted select friends and neighbors access to his home while keeping the curious press at bay, barely acknowledging their presence.

Those acquaintances he did receive were welcomed graciously but modestly. Without betraying an ounce of artifice, Hannibal retreated or quieted at choice moments, appearing a little shy, a little shaken, and a little reluctant to be in the spotlight. He sported two visible injuries, a bruised lip and a cut across one cheekbone.

People ate it up.

Mrs. Komeda filled the foyer with a veritable forest of colorfully-wrapped gift baskets containing everything from exotic fruit to high-end dog grooming products. They joined a rising sea of other congratulations-on-not-being-murdered and sorry-you-had-a-stalker gestures from Hollywood types eager to affirm their friendships with Hannibal: bottles of French champagne, robust flower arrangements, and homemade casseroles that looked and smelled suspiciously like Hamburger Helper. Everyone was careful and gushy and sympathetic. 

And - most eyeroll-inducing of all - Chilton was moved nearly to tears. 

“Almost chokes me up,” he sighed, standing with Will in the corner of the living room and watching Hannibal bashfully break eye contact with his well-wishers when they became maudlin. “He’s a natural.”

At some point in the afternoon, someone casually threw out a remark about insanity and violence. Delicately and diplomatically, Hannibal countered it from his armchair while nursing a cup of ginger tea.

“Tobias Budge is not insane. Public violence in our culture has very little to do with mental illness. It has do do instead with opportunity - and usually, access to weapons. In my case I was fortunate my visitor was not in possession of a firearm, or I would not be standing before you today.”

The conversation marched on swiftly in a new direction, and Chilton’s soul practically ascended on the spot.

“Masterful,” Will heard him gasp into his palm. 

With last night’s context fresh on Will’s mind, this was bizarre to watch - this scene of tanned, coiffed society folk in their Sunday morning athleisure, accepting French press coffee from Hannibal and perching all over his furniture like very large, very fussy birds. Every now and then, over the head of an oblivious neighbor, Hannibal - dressed down and reserved - would catch Will’s eye, and for a heartbeat Will thought he could see something in the other man’s expression for once: a challenge, or worse, a kind of recognition. 

It was discomfiting. And more exhilarating than he cared to admit. Each time they peaked, both feelings were swiftly chased away by crashing waves of shame and righteous irritation in equal measure.

Curiously, the more Hannibal played pretend, the easier Will found it to fake and project a kind of entertainer’s grace, and the more Hannibal let him lead the dance. It was Will, for instance, who decided when and how to shoo the guests away.

After Mrs. Komeda’s third retelling of her own fence-climbing stalker story from ‘87, Will left Chilton alone by the window and swept into the fray, arms wide.

“Regrettably, I have to play the bad guy today,” he declared, gently gesturing people towards the door and making excuses for Hannibal. Exhaustion. Too much excitement. That sort of thing.

Two guests lingered: Jack Crawford and Chilton, no doubt believing themselves to be exempt from the mass ejection. Knowing better than to think he could make those particular stubborn mules get a move on, Will stood transfixed at the window, watching Hannibal’s well-wishers return to their nearby homes or climb into BMWs. 

“I didn’t know Hannibal was so popular,” he murmured, half out of quiet horror, eyeing a cluster of people still chatting pleasantly on the sidewalk outside. 

“They’re partly here for you,” corrected Chilton. “You never say anything. So they’re curious.”

Will turned. “About what?”

“This whole...” Chilton made a circular finger motion, “dynamic. People want to know the most trivial things. What decor you brought when you moved in. What you wear around each other on a day off. What you’re like when taking care of each other.”

“I’m glad you seem to have gotten something out of this,” Will said wryly. 

To his credit, Chilton had the decency to look offended. In lieu of a self-defense he simply pointed across the room at Jack, who had just gotten off the phone and had his business face on (not to imply he had any other faces to choose from).

“Thankfully, the studio and the project won’t take a hit.”

It was news no one had asked for.

“Sorry you had to go through that, Dr. Lecter. But the silver lining is - we’ve got people exactly where we want them. Goodwill is high. If we can carry this through at least the release of the first trailers this winter, we’re in the right place.”

If Jack caught felt the sheer irritation emanating from Will’s corner of the room, he didn’t show it.

“Next, let’s talk precautions. I’ve got a contact at a private firm. They’re prepared to set you up, Dr. Lecter - and Will - with a security detail, at least until there’s better closure on the Budge case.”

Will, who had previously been burning patterns into the rug with his eyes, raised his head at that. Hannibal, intensely private, didn’t have personal staff. Not even to help manage a house of this size. No one - Will included - had a full picture of Hannibal Lecter’s comings and goings. Will was beginning to think that was by design. How would Hannibal operate with a detail trailing behind him at all times? 

But Hannibal only smiled, catlike, said something about having a perfectly adequate home security system, and somehow that was enough to derail Jack’s suggestion.

Reassured, Jack offered stiff parting handshakes and departed with Chilton. As soon as Jack’s SUV vanished around the corner, Will sauntered away from the window, hands in his pockets, and came to stand over Hannibal seated with that damned prop of his, that stupid ginger tea.

“You don’t have a security system,” Will pointed out, the corner of his mouth an apostrophe.

“In a manner of speaking, I do.”

Hannibal rose without difficulty - curious, considering his struggle with Budge - and made for the kitchen. Will followed, unwilling to let this conversation die, and watched while Hannibal put away his tea things and thereby dropping the pretense surrounding them. He then produced fresh mozzarella, basil, and tomatoes from the fridge and began to rinse and prep them.

“I have no need for a private detail, as I am able to defend myself,” Hannibal clarified. “And, I believe, so can you.”

“I’ve never really had to defend myself before.”

Hannibal smiled appraisingly across the kitchen island at Will in a way that strongly recalled Tobias Budge. But then Hannibal dropped his eyes to his knife and cutting board, and the moment was gone.

“No,” he agreed. “But let us call it faith.”

“Faith? You’re not a believer. As far as I know, you’re not bothered by any considerations of deity.”

“No? I suppose not. But I believe in you, Will Graham.”

There was a heavy, meaningful pause. Will watched as Hannibal’s knife rose and fell and rose and fell, listened to its the rhythmic thump against the cutting board and to the ripe sound of a fleshy fruit tearing. An inexplicable impulse overcame him, and he stepped around the island to stand close beside Hannibal, Will’s chest to his shoulder, and gently relieved him of knife duty. 

Hannibal hummed his approval and left Will with the blade. The rhythmic slicing resumed, progressing as deftly and smoothly as before.

Something occurred to Will then. “You didn’t tell me what the two of you talked about. Surely Budge didn’t simply burst through the doors, garrote swinging.”

“No. We spoke about friendship.”

Will’s mind flashed to Franklyn’s face as it had appeared on their flight to LAX: glowing, jovial, lit up at the thought that he, Tobias, Will, and Hannibal might have all the foundations for a shared friendship.

“He told me he could use a friend,” Hannibal explained. “Someone who can understand him, who thinks like he does, and can see the world and the people in it the way he does.”

“And how is that?”

Partway through the motion of retrieving a bottle of balsamic vinegar from storage, Hannibal hesitated, or at least appeared to. 

“He confessed to me that he killed a string of people in New York over the course of a few years. The cases remain unsolved.”

It was the kind of revelation that deserved a reaction. Will knew on some level that he should react. But gradually, gradually, his tolerance for the macabre and shocking was being sanded away, and besides, there was no point in performing for the present company, as unusual and impassive as it already was. Instead, Will barely stirred. He scraped his neat tomato slices onto a serving dish, dried the blade, and moved on to several sprigs of basil.

“He came right to you, didn’t he?” Will said curiously, and innocently enough.

“I turned him down, naturally. He did not receive it well.” Hannibal motioned at his own cut cheek and bruised lip. “And you? What did you and Budge speak of, when you encountered him first?”

Ah. That minor detail. Will hadn’t mentioned that to Hannibal. But Hannibal had also neglected to reveal or explain the visits Will knew - via Franklyn - that Hannibal had paid Budge in Beverly Hills. He risked an upward glance, expecting to find that Hannibal’s expression had gone flat and dark, and was surprised to find it warm and earnestly curious. Unable to hold the doctor’s gaze in its present state, Will bowed his head once more. Under his blade, the peppery fragrance of basil seeped from crushed leaves and scented the sphere of air around him.

“He saw us at Sutcliffe’s office,” Will said simply. He didn’t add: _but he saw you arrive first._

Or: _you set me up._

Hannibal closed his eyes and dipped his chin in what must have been meant as a collapsing nod of uneasy acceptance. It felt rehearsed somehow, as though echoed from seeing years of patients receive bad news.

Fully plated, the simple salad burst with contrast, its bleeding tomato flesh standing starkly out from bone-white cheese. Will and Hannibal shared the simple lunch seated at the breakfast nook, just as they had once shared a protein scramble in Will’s tiny condo, knees so close they nearly bumped under the table.

At any given time, Will brimmed with a thousand conflicting feelings for Hannibal Lecter, and never as much as he did now. He wanted to warn him, to deceive him, to run away with him, to turn him in. Whichever part of him eventually won, Will knew it would only be an accident of tug-of-war. 

“I meant what I said to you while they patched you up at the hospital,” he said. 

“That you were sorry to have dragged me into your world?”

“Yes.” Will swallowed hard, and chose the rest of his words carefully, eager that Hannibal pick up the current of irony rippling beneath them. “At the time I meant the Hollywood machine: the publicity, the scrutiny, the stalkers. I know you value your privacy. But now Sutcliffe is dead. I transferred his blood to your hands. Tobias Budge is out there, and he knows. We have another world to contend with, and one that I don’t think we can control or predict, the way Chilton believes he can do with the world of tweets and magazines.” 

Hannibal flashed Will a convincingly sad smile, and it struck a reluctantly affected Will like a bolt to the heart. 

“I got here on my own,” said the doctor. “But I appreciate the company. I am, after all, in this for you.”

\- - -

_**Email from Franklyn@[redacted].com** _

_Dear Will,_

_I will be traveling across the European continent until the end of the holidays. Mr. Chilton has graciously given me extra PTO so that I can have some “me time” in the face of recent events. I am so very very glad Dr. Lecter is safe, and that you are too. I am so sorry about you know who._

_I am so sorry,_

_Franklyn_

_PS Will try and bring chocolate and other goodies back with me._

_PPS What wine would Dr. Lecter like? I’m thinking a good Chardonnay from France._

_PPPS Hope you like postcards! :D_

\- - -

THANKSGIVING DAY.

_A series of RAPID CUTS between frames pf of low-quality cell phone footage taken in various light across various days: Will Graham arriving at a gourmet supermarket, Will Graham crossing a street carrying a cup of coffee, Will Graham leaving his agent’s office in shades and a cap. Next, a view of a highway drive near Malibu, a shaky clip of a dinner shared at Nobu. Then, familiar locations, all deserted: the drop-off area of Will’s dry cleaner, the front door of Winston’s groomer, the garage door of Hannibal’s home. A close-up of the garage keypad, a brief flash of a hand in the corner._

_Finally - EXT. HANNIBAL LECTER’S HOUSE, NIGHT. PRESENT._

_We jerkily zoom in on a window view into the formal dining room. Though of poor resolution and shot from outside in the dark, some shapes are distinguishable: a fully-set table with a complete Thanksgiving spread, the outlines of a dozen seated guests, and standing near the window with wine glass in hand, the unmistakable image of Will Graham._

__

__

_Regular view, CUT TO - INT. DINING ROOM_

__

__

_...now empty. Some time has passed and all guests have gone home, but the figure previously in the window has not moved._

__

__

_MEDIUM SHOT: WILL GRAHAM with cell phone in hand. He stares directly out the window, transfixed._

__

__

_POV: an old sedan parked in near pitch-blackness on the opposite curb._

__

__

_CLOSE ON: Will’s expression of horrified understanding. There is something of a look of hypnosis in his gaze._

__

__

_Suddenly, we understand too. Someone has sent Will the recorded scenes we have just seen, and they have sent it from across the street in the heavy dark, where they still sit filming, and Will is in the house alone._

__

__

_Time slows to half._

__

__

_He turns, switches off the lights, glances briefly behind, contemplating running for the gun in the annex. Thinks better of it. He plants his feet shoulder-width apart, drops his center of gravity._

__

__

_A scene of glittering SHATTERED GLASS, frozen in the moments after impact, fills our view. A million tiny silvered mirrors._

__

__

_NO AUDIO._

__

__

_WILL raises both arms to shield his face from the razor-sharp rain. Between them we see -_

__

__

_POV: a vaguely HUMAN FORM, mid-leap, approaching with great momentum._

__

__

_CUT TO BLACK._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S01E08 “Fromage”  
> \- Franklyn's description of Tobias's weirdness  
> \- convo about recklessness and attention  
> \- Tobias saying he could use a friend  
> \- "dragged [you] into [my] world" & "I got here on my own," etc
> 
> References to S02E09 "Shiizakana"  
> \- intruder smashing through window at night
> 
> References to S02E11 “Ko No Mono”  
> \- "not bothered by any considerations of deity," originally spoken by Hannibal about himself
> 
> References to 03E06 “Dolce”  
> \- "Before you and after you"
> 
> References to 03E09 “And the Woman Clothed with the Sun”  
> \- "the company of the dead" is something Alana says in this episode
> 
> Batard-Montrachet is borrowed from many places in S3.


	21. They take their shots (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediate aftermath of a kill.
> 
> References: S02E09 “Shiizakana”, S02E10 “Naka Choko”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief update this time before I go traveling internationally for a bit - will return with a proper chapter!

There was a surreal quality to Hannibal’s Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe it was the way things meshed, or rather failed to mesh, between the present image of the handsome, beaming, velvet-clad host carving a gorgeously herb-crusted bird, and the still-fresh memory of having sent Tobias Budge after the same man while fully understanding the danger of it. 

It was agony to watch - but not feel - the festivities. Despite the risk of visible rudeness, Will took to idly checking the notifications on his phone between courses, or during particularly enthralling stories when he was sure no eyes would be upon him.

For a time, Beverly sent him dog memes from her parents’ home in a suburb of Boston, but she was hours ahead, and all the Katzes - Bev included - soon departed for early Black Friday shopping. 

Dessert was served - a traditional pumpkin pie alongside homemade ice cream and individual glazed pear tarts - then drinks. 

It took a dozen guests barely any time to clean out that night’s designated stock of brandy. As the social part of the evening drew to a close, Will withdrew to the corner of the glass-walled living room, compelled by an eerie sense that he was being observed like a fish in a tank, and had been all night. 

Once half the guests had trickled out of the house, bound to various afterparties, Will began experimentally dimming the lights - just a bit - so he could have a better view of the street outside. If Hannibal saw what he was doing, he made no mention of it, having given up on doing something about their drive-by visitor ages ago.

A little past midnight, only one guest remained, an opera singer named Irene who kept placing a hand on Hannibal’s knee no matter how many times he gently removed it. Her driver was in bed by now, she claimed, and she didn’t have Uber on her phone. And because it was above and beyond - because Hannibal as a host was nothing if not above and beyond - Hannibal offered to drive her home like it was the most natural choice in the world. 

Will gave him an arch look from across the room, which Hannibal returned at the door, and then he and guest were on their way, leaving Will still glued to his spot in the corner. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Surprised, he fished it out, thinking there was no one who had reason to be contacting him now.

All at once he’d received several messages from an unrecognized number with an L.A. area code, all short, shaky, and low resolution video clips not more than a few seconds each. As he watched them in order, more arrived. 

They were all taken at locations he frequented - the dry cleaner, the dog groomer, the supermarket, specific intersections in the city - and though some were devoid of a human presence, most clips tracked Will’s movement from afar. Someone had delivered to Will a veritable library of video after video of himself, usually in profile, sometimes from behind, shot on various days judging by the range of clothing he sported in them: everything from his summer uniform of jeans and a T-shirt to autumnal corduroys and plaids. 

Urgently Winston began to whine in the foyer, nose pressed against the narrow window beside the front door.

A few more buzzes, and Will’s phone screen lit up with a single image, the only still photo in a barrage of vaguely threatening videos. The scene was so dark and splotchy that Will could make nothing of it at first. Then, rotating the image, he understood. 

Figures in a Renaissance painting, Hannibal and his guests were frozen in various postures of amusement around a long dining table. Marginally clearer than the other humanoid smudges was Will’s own fuzzy countenance, staring almost directly ahead as if he were looking straight out of the photo. The image was from earlier that night.

Will’s chest seized unpleasantly. He was being watched _right now._

\- - -

Damn these glass walls; they had made everyone in the house into sitting ducks all night.

The watcher in the dark would know, by now, that Will had seen every message he’d been sent. From the vantage point outside, there was a direct line of sight into the living room, which no doubt glowed bright and clear at the end of the drive like a little beacon above an inky sea.

A constellation of memories connected in Will’s mind, all of them making sudden sense at once: the vanishing of neighborhood dogs; the parked sedan night after night; the calls to the house in Hannibal’s absence. This was a long-term project.

So why send those videos now? Will concluded his visitor had at last decided to act.

There was no running or hiding or placing a call; the still-invisible visitor sat seconds away in the drive. But the annex - the gun in the guest annex! - no sooner had Will registered the possibility than he decided firmly against it, and without reasoning why. 

Knowing each deliberate movement would be highly visible, he strode to the center of the living room, briefly exposing his back to the glass wall, and pointedly switched off the last of the lights, plunging the only lit-up room of the house into darkness.

There was a scraping noise out front, and a shape moved in Hannibal’s landscaping.

Winston’s whining climbed a few pitches, then lapsed into a strangled, breathy noise that was almost no noise at all. The dog retreated, darting from the entryway to rally at Will’s side.

For a beat, the only sounds in the room were Will’s quick, shallow breaths. Man and dog faced the street through the glass wall, shifting into a ready stance, the faint midnight moon icing the walls and furniture around them a soft blue.

Time dilated. 

Then: growing darkness as an approaching shape in the window blocked out what little moonlight was filtering into the room. At once Will was bathed in a sparkling glass cascade, stinging shards glancing off both arms raised to protect his eyes. 

Whatever had leapt and hurtled through the window landed heavily on the glass-littered rug, then shook glass from its body like an animal drying itself of rain. Great antlers like a stag’s flickered in and out of existence above the creature’s head. It loomed tall and skeletal and taunted him like the wendigo in Hannibal’s foyer once had before Will took it to pieces with his bare hands. 

Winston snarled - and so did the intruder, who mirrored Will’s fighting stance and lunged.

\- - -

The door clicked open at nearly one in the morning.

Cautiously, cautiously, for Hannibal had seen the mess of the front window as he pulled up in the drive.

The house smelled faintly of blood and sweat and standing, vegetal water - fragments of a broken vase and what had once been a flower arrangement decorated the boundary between foyer and living room floor. It was silent, and for an unpleasant moment Hannibal considered the possibility that something had happened to Will - until he stepped into the center of the room, glass crunching underfoot, and saw otherwise.

Winston, muzzle matted with newly drying blood.

Will, shell-shocked but in one piece, standing over the coffee table.

And laid out on the plinth before him like an offering: a motionless body, once a man, head and neck lying at a broken-doll angle.

Hannibal only stared, reluctant to shatter the moment with speech. So Will did.

“Someone came to kill you, then someone came to kill me.”

The doctor circled the scene at the edges of the room like a big cat or a vulture, slowly approaching the lifeless offering.

“I don’t feel much,” added Will. Indeed, his pulse and breathing were now slow and even. “But polite society normally puts such taboos on taking a life.”

“Without death, we’d be at a loss,” Hannibal said almost casually, crouching by the body. “It’s the prospect of death that drives us to greatness. Look what you’ve done. Did you kill him with your hands?”

Will held up a palm, then turned it over. Bruises were fast-forming where the skin on his knuckles hadn’t already become split and bloodied.

“It was very intimate.”

Hannibal lightly touched the dead man’s pallid with the pads of two fingers, the look on his face caught between wonderment and something else Will could not puzzle out.

\- - -

They moved nothing, for the sake of the police.

Officers flitted around the scene, taking photos and notes, and at one point Will glanced out of the shattered window to see a cluster of curious neighbors forming in the drive, faces going red and blue in the flashing police car lights, necks craned to better see into the exposed living room of Hannibal’s house. He wrapped himself in a blanket given to him by emergency responders and turned his back.

During the statement interviews, Will felt himself drifting and unfocusing as though suddenly very tired. Every question directed at him needed to be asked twice. 

The investigators on-scene kept drawing attention again and again to the damage Will had done this with his bare hands, and apparently without sustaining any serious injuries himself. It looked ugly - of that Will was faintly aware. The police would be looking for any sign that the use of extreme force had not been necessary. 

Were there any threats? Will handed over his phone with the stream of video clips he’d received. 

Was there a weapon of any sort in the house, they wanted to know, and Will shook his head no, even while thinking about the gun in the annex. At this denial, Hannibal caught his eye, held Will’s gaze with an unreadable look on his face, then broke it.

\- - -

In the end, Will was not detained, but preparations began for him to go to trial.

After the body was wheeled away in a zipped bag, and after Hannibal washed and bandaged Will and made arrangements for them to spend the rest of the night elsewhere, there was peace for only a few hours. Neighbor Jeff, whose dog Will now knew had gone missing thanks to his midnight attacker, snapped a photo of the driveway scene that was immediately sold to several outlets and went viral shortly after sunrise. 

Come morning, appetite chased away by the sight of his own name as a trending topic on Facebook, Will turned down the breakfast Hannibal offered and instead scrolled through repost after repost of that gut-turning photo: police and paramedics and their vehicles crowding the driveway, walking a bodybag-laden gurney down its length.

The response dwarfed that of the Tobias Budge incident of only days ago. 

There was no shortage of public interest in what had just happened in Hannibal’s living room, and an outpouring of details rose up to meet it. Coverage ranged from statements of relief and support to vehement indictments. Will and Hannibal were forced to vacate the house in Beverly Hills for a time while the shattered window was repaired, then relocated from their first chosen hotel after a particularly intrepid journalist scaled the wall to alight on their third floor balcony, cell phone brandished and recording. They left the second hotel, too, when the noise and clamor of news outlets on the sidewalk below became too much to bear.

The hiding only fanned the flames of mortifying exposure. Just Jared, TMZ, Buzzfeed, and an endless, disparate assortment of other online platforms became scrollable feeds of virtually only photos of Hannibal and Will in hats and shades walking from SUV to building, SUV to building, partly blocked from view by security on loan from Jack Crawford. 

By the afternoon of Black Friday, Chilton had Will’s Instagram set to private and emptied of followers in order to stop the flow of knife and skull emojis that had flooded the account over the passage of just a few hours. Almost immediately after that, he’d hired Will a lawyer, Leonard Brauer, and set the design of a defense in motion. 

The agent did not seem surprised by the trajectory of recent developments, but he was livid and frantic regardless, keeping Will updated nearly to the minute on statements he’d released or favors he’d called in for the purposes of killing a story before it went to press. 

“Stay completely out of sight and don’t talk to anyone besides Brauer,” Chilton urged over the phone at one point, when traffic on Will’s website crashed the agency’s server. “I’m thinking the castle doctrine should cover you for sure, but less you show your face right now, the better. Do not fuck this up for me - us. _Do not fuck this up for us._ ”

Will learned that night through the news on TV that the house of the dead man, Randall Tier, had been raided for evidence, and police were awaiting toxicology reports. Will also learned that night through gossip blogs that a good chunk of the public thought he was criminally insane and a freak of nature. Everything that Freddie Lounds had once fixated upon were dragged back into the light, and more besides: screenshots of old Instagram posts, cached projects from art school, a hallucination witnessed by animal control, frequent health scares, the odd quote taken out of context.

Inevitably, names Will’s agency wanted buried were floated like rotting bodies to dry shore: Andrew Caldwell, Donald Sutcliffe, even Abel Gideon. The more elaborate conspiracy theories on the internet speculated that, after carrying out the Hollywood Ripper murders, Will and his people had pressured an unstable and suggestible Gideon into thinking he was a killer. Then he’d slashed up Caldwell for sport, conspired with Dr. Sutcliffe to help provide an alibi in the form of a clinic visit, then disappeared the doctor as well, eliminating a loose end. Randall Tier, they concluded, was just a case of Will getting careless and sloppy after getting high on staying undetected for so long.

Will was struck by how much sense that made. He fell into a detached silence for a number of days, interacting largely only with Hannibal.

In the face of revitalized rumors and criticism, Will’s people handled him gingerly, gingerly: they were overly cheery when speaking to him, avoided mention of the Tier case, and when they thought he couldn’t see, Will often caught them throwing hesitant glances at each other. According to Chilton, the team thought Will was still operating in an extended state of shock, or perhaps falling into a mild depression thanks to the media circus.

The truth was, Will was coolly watching all of it as though peering into a swirling snowglobe in the palm of his hand, and feeling as though something had quieted in his mind. Like something else had died in that moon-bathed living room along with Randall Tier.

\- - -

Hannibal, too, misread Will’s silence at first. Returning to their suite on an overcast, early December evening, he found Will leaning heavily on the balcony rail, doors thrown wide open, the entire bedroom filled with the brisk outside air. The balcony curtains fluttered slightly in the winter breeze, and a still-open bottle of whiskey sat releasing a smokey fragrance into the room. Will wore only a pair of pajama pants more Hannibal’s taste than his own, and he had not switched on a single light during Hannibal’s brief outing. There was a subtle sense drama in all of the choices setting this scene that was unusual for Will, as though he were becoming a little unglued.

“You’ve been drinking alone,” Hannibal observed, clearing away a glass tumbler still holding a drop of that night’s scotch.

Will hummed without turning. “It’s as good a time as any,” was the flat reply.

Something in the languid line of his posture made Hannibal pause, considering. So as not to crowd Will, he lingered in the sitting area but watched the other man’s unstirring outline against the city skyline with a careful eye.

“Don’t go inside, Will. You’ll want to retreat as we want to jump from balconies, or as the glint of the rails tempts us when we hear the approaching train.” 

Will angled his head to the side, slightly, as though tilting his ear toward the sound of Hannibal’s voice like a dog.

“Stay with me,” Hannibal coaxed, more insistently. 

There was a noise like a soft laugh, so quiet it could have been ambient noise from the city below. 

“Where else am I going to go?” Then, to be obstinately literal when he knew full well Hannibal meant otherwise, Will added, “I’m basically under house arrest.”

Hannibal played along. “You have everywhere to go. As long as you buttress your mind against deterring forces like guilt. You should be quite pleased.”

At that, Will finally straightened and turned - haltingly, slowly - and faced Hannibal from the balcony, his edges bright with the hazy orange glow of the city, his wind-ruffled hair alight. Minor injuries from his nights-ago confrontation still stood out starkly on his neck and chest, now purpling and ringed with green halos. Hannibal had expected to meet a thousand-yard stare, but the Will Graham on the balcony was not, in fact, retreating or disoriented or longing to dash himself on the concrete seven stories below. 

Hannibal took what felt like an involuntary step forward. 

_You should be quite pleased._

“I am,” Hannibal revealed, enticed to recklessness by the sight of Will transformed, bruised and burning brightly, clear-eyed and steady in the brisk wind.

Will met his gaze levelly and felt like the scales were beginning to fall from his own eyes.

“Of course you are,” he whispered, playing an uncomfortable internal game of connect-the-dots and fighting to keep the calculations from touching his expression.

Will watched Hannibal’s dark figure become illuminated in stages as he approached the balcony. Stepping into the chill of the open air, he took Will’s cold, wind-whipped face in both hands and they stood like that for ages, foreheads touching, beneath a starless sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to S02E09 “Shiizakana"  
> \- the killing of Randall Tier
> 
> References to S02E10 “Naka Choko”  
> \- "Don't go inside," etc.


	22. They take their shots (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjustment time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short transitional bit this time - trying to gradually get back into the swing of things!

If the days immediately following the Tier incident felt like slow-motion, then the rest of winter felt like slamming violently into double-time. Will would have nightmares about it for weeks to come: Brauer’s incessant calls, Chilton’s long-suffering sighs, shouts and projectiles from the sidewalk, the interminable lying-low, the paparazzi car chases, the hate mail, the relentless TV coverage -- and all of it jumbled abstractly together like a shrill, fast-forwarding VHS tape.

Somewhere in the mess of camera flashes and public heckling that made up Will’s entire holiday season were two points in time that stood out bright and clear. Firstly, the stunning moment of his eventual acquittal before a jury on grounds of self-defense in his own home. And secondly, the opening minutes of the five-course dinner and cocktail party Hannibal then threw to celebrate the end of Will’s trial. 

From the beginning, all signs indicated it would be a somber event. A man had died, after all, and the memory of Randall Tier hovered like a persistent stormcloud cloud over the guests in Hannibal’s newly cleaned and refurbished formal dining room. Everyone eyed Will with new awe and wariness. They drained and refilled prosecco flutes mere feet from the spot where Tier’s neck was fatally snapped in two, and where his blood had once painted the white carpet a brilliant ruby.

Hannibal seemed smug and excited about something, and too numb to process anything beyond small talk about how people had celebrated New Year’s, Will didn’t think to question it until Hannibal motioned for silence in the middle of pre-dinner drinks and Mrs. Komeda turned in her seat to fix Will with an arch gaze.

And then, before Will could process what he had just semi-publicly agreed to, Hannibal was calling him his fiancé and gently nudging Will to give Mrs. Komeda a closer look at the white gold band now encircling his finger and glinting like quicksilver in the candlelight.

Will said almost nothing for the rest of the dinner, chalked it up to exhaustion and shock, and from the doorstep he smilingly waved the last of the guests away at the end of the evening, with a beaming Hannibal’s arm around his waist.

When the door swung heavily back into place, sealing them back off from the outside world, Will rounded on Hannibal in confusion.

“What was that?” he demanded, not unkindly.

Hannibal feigned perfect ignorance and innocence: “The dinner? I confess I should have used more strong flour for the pastry -”

“Not that,” Will interrupted, “you know what I mean.” He raised his left hand and flashed the new piece of jewelry at eye level.

Hannibal padded back into the house, sank into a couch in the living room, and softly pat the cushion next to him with an expectant look on his face.

With a sign of mock exasperation, Will followed obediently, reminding himself of Winston.

“If you recall,” Hannibal began warmly and patiently, creating a nook with his arm and the back of the couch that Will comfortably settled into, “there was a request from Chilton that the public be led to believe we are engaged to be married, and it was most in keeping with our style for it to be done subtly through leaks from an intimate crowd. You have narrowly escaped a manslaughter charge; in light of recent events, engagement news will lesson some of the vitriol directed at you in the world. We are reorienting the public to once again perceive you as the object of someone’s reverence - of someone’s love. Even if in a somewhat heavy-handed manner.”

Will let that sink in.

“Well, you could’ve warned me.”

“You needed to look believably caught off-guard for our guests and their iPhones”

Good point. Will hadn’t been in a pretending mood lately. He contemplated the elephant in the room.

“But what about...” Will scrunched up his face, searching for the right phrase. “Practical considerations.”

At once, Hannibal’s tone was all business again. 

“Chilton assures me that by summertime he will have arranged the ideal extenuating circumstances under which we may extricate ourselves from the contract.” He gave Will’s shoulder an unconvincingly and uncharacteristically chipper squeeze. “So you need not worry about following through with marriage.”

A painful lump rose in Will’s throat - an inarticulable impulse. It was with a nearly out-of-body vantage point that he observed himself blurting out the next few words:

“What if I do want to worry?”

Hannibal went very still. 

“Is it wise?” he said. “You are in a vulnerable state.”

Will didn’t say: _so are you._

Instead, he tore away from Hannibal’s gaze and arms and began clearing the room of emptied cocktail glasses, inwardly grateful Hannibal had not taken the bait. Will had yet to independently interrogate that line of thought. He had practically volunteered himself to marry Hannibal Lecter for real - so excitedly that the words had leapt on reflex, unbidden, from his throat. Was it a feat of masochism, born of an unconscious need to remain trapped in the lion’s den? Or noble self sacrifice in hopes of getting closer, of revealing Hannibal’s connection to the Hollywood Ripper’s body count? What was Will trying to achieve, exactly? He was of two fevered minds at once.

\- - -

The engagement stunt was uproariously successful.

Will and Hannibal made the front cover of every single major tabloid the following week, which Will only knew because Beverly made sure to text him a photo of the checkout counter magazine rack every time she went to the store. Their names began trending on Facebook and Twitter for the third fucking time that winter. A delighted, surprised Chilton found himself turning down request after request for exclusive rights to engagement shoots and interviews, as well as an ask from Lifetime for the film rights to his clients’ love story. And when the first trailer for _Ripper_ hit the web, it broke the goddamn YouTube record for the shortest time a movie promo took to hit one million views.

Unthinkably, the unique combination of suspicion, intrigue, and sympathy surrounding Will as a figure of mystery, violence, and romance made for a winning combination as far as film marketing was concerned. Crawford and Chilton were about to have a box office hit on their hands. Was Will villain or victim? At some point, the answer to that question had stopped mattering to the public. All that propelled them now was unbridled curiosity.

A veritable forest of flowers was delivered to Chilton’s office, addressed to Will - so many that when he dropped by in the middle of January, there was hardly any empty space in the room not occupied by either lush, out-of-season blooms or lingering HAPPY 2014 banners that Chilton had not yet bothered to tear down. 

“Looks like Christmas has happened two months in a row for you,” Will marveled, unable to find Chilton in the fragrant floral jungle.

From somewhere in the distant corner came Chilton’s cheerful reply: “Time to buy some lottery tickets, Will. Bet on some horses. Acquire some volatile stock. I mean to say we’re _untouchable_.” There was an approaching rustling noise and Chilton appeared between two bursts of exotic-looking blue flowers, eyes wide and glittering. “As the song goes - all we do is win.”

Will grimaced, searching in vain in all the floral mess for the bar cart. “Counting your chickens, Chilton. Might want to save bold statements like that for after opening weekend.” 

“Think about it,” Chilton insisted, beginning to push plants out of the way and clearing some space around his office seating for the two of them. “We were up against astronomical odds. Everything was dragged back out: the Hollywood Ripper, your health problems, the weirdness with your art, all the rumors about disappearances - and BOOM, acquittal and an engagement, and the world is so ready to see your turn on the big screen as Jack the Ripper. Morbid curiosity is such a beautiful thing.” He wiped a fake tear away from beneath one eye. "All the math says we shouldn't have been able to come back from this - and yet we did."

“I’m not so ready to celebrate,” said Will darkly. “It doesn’t read like a triumph of PR so much as evidence of horrific collective amnesia.”

The warning look that Chilton shot him, at that, was enough to corrode metal. “I said it then and I’m saying it again now: don’t fuck this up for us. You are under no circumstances to make comments like that in public. The most complicated part of the operation is yet to come.”

Will practically choked on his own incredulity. “I’m sorry, you mean all of that - the hiding, the press nightmare, the trial - that wasn’t difficult enough for you?”

Chilton printed off a jam-packed calendar sheet and snatched it from the paper catch with a flourish. In perfectly matter-of-fact terms he explained his intention to milk the post-Tier, post-trial drama to its full potential by having Will doing a delicate tightrope walk between the macabre and the agreeable. 

“It’s going to be the theme of your film-related press tour,” explained Chilton, “and if we execute this properly, playing up both suspicions and sympathies by turn, it could be the makings of a fascinating, long-term career. Legend material. People won’t _ever_ stop talking about you.“

Will was about to quip that that was hardly a selling point as far as he was concerned, but Chilton pressed on.

“Speaking of embracing suspicion in a controlled fashion, between now and the premiere, I’m sending both of you on a few assignments,” the agent announced, chest puffed proudly. “The first one has already been lined up for you.”

Glowering, Will waited, twisting the new ring on his finger and knowing that Chilton would burst like a rain-swollen damn. Which he did.

“How do you feel about opening the Evil Minds exhibit at LACMA?”


	23. They take their shots (III)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suspicion escalates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a confession. Every time I write a "CLICK FOR PHOTOS" bit for a press article, I get really sad that I can't actually, you know, SEE such photos in real life

_ 15 January 2014. Perez Hilton. “ **Hannibal Lecter and pal shop for jewelry on Rodeo Drive**.” _

_Better late than never, but these just came in from a reader tip-off! A few days ago, socialite, psychiatrist, and TOTAL DADDY Hannibal Lecter flew through a few big-name jewelers on Rodeo Drive, with his bae’s publicist/agent in tow. Looks like even those with flawless taste want a little help from friends when choosing...what, exactly? My money’s on a watch or cufflinks for Will Graham, who’s weathered more than his share of scandal lately._

_(CLICK FOR PHOTOS of the two at Harry Winston, Cartier, and more)_

\- - -

_What is evil? This is a big question, to be sure. Too ambitious a topic for me to tackle alone, and for that I will later welcome to the stage Dr. Fell of Stanford University and Dr. Sogliato of UC Berkeley, here today to share their work on the social philosophy of evil, and how it converses with ethics, morality, art, law, and the framework of society itself._

_Our concept of evil has changed a lot over the past thousand years. It’s moved beyond the unpredictable unknown, beyond the supernatural, and beyond, even, the devil. We’re familiar with the now-cartoony image of Satan: horns, hooves and all, initially probably borrowed from Medieval renderings. But there’s been a paradigm shift, and in our modern world, evil is realer and closer. Evil is intimate. It’s horrifically accessible. We’ve come to think of evil as a force contained within - or embodied by - our fellow man. There are those who walk among us and -_

With a very final-sounding crunch, Will balled Chilton’s speech draft into an unreadable mass as he left the office building through a pair of sliding glass doors. 

“Tasteless,” he muttered, briefly so wrapped up in his reluctance to memorize and deliver such cheesy drivel in front of LACMA patrons that he didn’t register the silver BMW idling in the circular drive, its passenger window rolled down. 

He walked in front of it and was rewarded with the sudden blaring of its horn. 

After jumping out of his skin in shock, Will caught himself and slammed a palm down on the hood of the car, hissing, “Jesus.” 

He circled to the side to share a stern word with the driver, expecting lurking paparazzi, and was met, instead, by the cool-as-ice countenance of Bedelia du Maurier. She wore navy silk and already had one brow pointedly arched above her cat-eye sunglasses, as though amused by Will’s aborted outburst of indignity.

“What do you want?” he demanded, not exactly warmly. Then, unable to stop himself: “Are you here to tell me your years-ago divorce from Hannibal didn’t really go through?”

It was a stupid, unspeakably rude thing to say, especially considering the minor detail that he and Hannibal weren’t even really engaged. (Question mark?) But somehow this not-so-chance encounter still felt unreasonably humiliating. In fact, the very idea of Bedelia having played a significant part in Hannibal’s romantic past was humiliating. It stung and Will didn’t know why.

She was probably going to argue the terms of a preexisting, ugly prenup, Will guessed. Or make some other demand in order to hold the Lecter-Graham engagement hostage. And so he was entirely unprepared for what words did eventually leave the screenwriter’s mouth in lieu of a proper hello:

“You righteous, reckless, twitchy little man,” said Bedelia. “Get in the car.”

Will just fucking stared.

“I - I’m sorry, was that supposed to convince or repel me?”

Bedelia whipped off her shades, and the glare beneath could’ve singed Will’s brows.

\- - -

Within minutes, the unlikely pair - a dignified Veronica Lake blonde and an unshaven, glowering actor in sweats - were seated across from each other at a table in the retro-styled, red-and-white dining room of the In-N-Out on Sunset. A pair of small children were screaming at their helpless parents two booths down, and the faint smell of fast food grease (now unfamiliar to Will, thanks to Hannibal) cycled through the building, borne by the current of air conditioning.

Since they were here anyway, Will had ordered two full meals, which now sat before them on bright red trays. He had also wasted no time tucking into his fries, but Bedelia left her serving untouched and merely watched Will eat with zero softening or interruption of her blank but withering gaze.

He half-jokingly held out his fries to her, and she smiled stiffly in response, rejecting them with a single shake of the head. For a time after that, Will ate his lunch in defiant silence, determined not to give Bedelia the pleasure of knowing she had piqued his interest by whisking him off at midday with zero advance notice, the way FBI agents picked up unsuspecting civilian contacts on spy shows. And she, determined to call his bluff, sat with arms folded imperiously, looking radically out of place in this setting in her pencil skirt and heels - more screen goddess than screenwriter. 

Will’s curiosity eventually cracked between bites. 

“I’m sure you didn’t bring me here only to watch me stuff my face,” he prodded. “Even the stalkers who’ve come by the house lately would draw the line there.”

Bedelia folded her hands elegantly on the table, then removed them almost immediately, as though remembering something. She produced a packaged wet wipe from the depths of her Chanel purse and gave her side of the tabletop a thorough wiping before resting her hands back upon it.

“No, as riveting as the image of an unkempt, between-projects actor eating an unreasonably tall cheeseburger might be for some...this was the only suitable venue for our conversation,” she half-explained. 

Then, at Will’s skeptical look, she added, “Neither my social circle nor Hannibal’s is likely to encounter us by chance here. Nor are they likely to think of trailing us here, if searching. Most importantly, it is well-lit, noisy, and public. And not exactly on the local paparazzi’s list of celebrity haunts.”

Her frank statement of reasoned-out paranoia gave Will pause. She obviously didn’t want Hannibal knowing about this meeting, or anyone reporting back to him about it, and was willing to sit at a table she felt the need to disinfect to make sure neither of those scenarios came to pass. Two things were very clear to Will about that: firstly, that this was absolutely about the engagement on some level, and secondly, that Bedelia was afraid of Hannibal somehow. 

“Admittedly,” she said almost flippantly, by Bedelia standards, “a fast food kidnapping would not have been my ideal method of getting your attention, but none of the calls I made from a blocked number made their way through to you. Clearly, I underestimated the degree of caution, fear, and paranoia to which you would be reacting at the time.”

A fry dropped from Will’s hand at that, and in his surprise he nearly upended his soft drink.

“That was you?” he said hollowly, thinking back to sleepless nights spent pacing the living room. “You called several times a week, in the dead of night, for months?”

Bedelia eyed him strangely, taken aback herself. She shook her flawlessly coiffed head. 

“Not so frequently, nor for so long. Given recent events and circumstances, I wonder if most of your insistent nighttime calls were made by the same man who carried out the unfortunate holiday invasion of your home. Now deceased.”

She punctuated the last phrase with an indecipherable head tilt.

Well. It made sense. It made perfect sense, as soon as Will could tear his attention away from the fact that Bedelia’s oblique, painfully cautious manner of speech strongly echoed Hannibal’s. Or maybe it was the other way around. Even while harboring undisclosed suspicions about Hannibal, Will couldn’t seem to block out the little voices that whispered in his ear every time he was forced to think about Bedelia in regards to Hannibal: all those shared habits, shared mannerisms, shared tastes. They just fit. They should’ve worked perfectly together. Should’ve stayed married. So why hadn’t they?

Will held his palm out at her as if to say, go on, his face mirroring her impassive expression.

She spoke so quietly and slowly, then, that Will had to lean towards her to hear her voice over the sounds of families chattering and orders being taken. 

“I know,” she murmured, “that you have been collecting pieces of an ugly puzzle for some time: the murders from last summer, various brushes with PR disaster, hospital stays, and inexplicable disappearing acts by stalkers and doctors. And then, of course, Randall Tier. I’ve been following the larger story.”

“Bedelia, I’m not sure I follow yours, right now.” Will frowned, consciously trying not to look like a deer in headlights as the conversation veered into the invasive and uncomfortable. 

“Spare me the feeble deflections and reserve them for your publicity team,” she scolded. “Your instinct for defensiveness is misdirected. You have the fragments; I’m merely here to suggest that you let the scales fall from your eyes and assemble the pieces. Hannibal Lecter is dangerous.”

Will blinked, appetite suddenly gone.

Bedelia matched his lean and dropped her voice nearly to a whisper.

“Whatever cat and mouse game you’re playing, whatever you think you’re doing with this engagement...you won’t catch him. You are not in a spy movie. You cannot possibly stomach what it would take to be a mole that embedded in Hannibal Lecter’s personal life. However you think you’re going to manipulate this situation to your advantage, think again.”

Will’s mind - and heart - raced. He thought briefly of deflecting again, of retreating, of swearing up and down as well as on his father’s grave that she was wrong about Hannibal, as well as about Will’s intentions and suspicions, and that Will couldn’t possibly see what she was pointing at. But in Bedelia’s frightened intensity, he saw shades of a nightmare he’d had months ago: of facing her in the Hills, with the nighttime skyline illuminating her halo of blonde hair from behind. Her bloodied dress had danced around her in the buffeting wind, Will heard himself parrot Hannibal’s words to her, and a pained smile had crept across her lovely features.

This was not dream-Bedelia sitting across from him. But all the same, Will felt a certain pull of familiarity towards her nonetheless, as though hoping real-Bedelia might be the cipher to his old, fevered nightmares.

“There is no advantage,” he said realistically, all but confirming his secret designs. “It’s all degrees of disadvantage.”

“Who holds the devil, let him hold him well. He will hardly be caught a second time.”

“I don’t intend Hannibal to be caught a second time.”

Bedelia’s eyes came alive for the first time that afternoon, and she sat back, regarding Will like the Cheshire cat. “Can’t live with him, can’t live without him: is that what this is? The engagement isn’t a trap - at least, not solely. The engagement is real.”

When Will did not immediately answer, Bedelia pressed on. 

“Does he know? That of all the layers of deception at work here, the thickest one is _senntiment._ ”

“Sentiment? This isn’t fucking Austen.”

One corner of Bedelia’s lips twitched upwards into a wry curve.

“No,” she agreed. “It’s religion.”

\- - -

__  
18 January 2014. Us Weekly. “ **Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter engaged: ‘They are two sides of the same coin.** ’”  


_The love between Hollywood’s resident reclusive eccentric Will Graham and celebrity psychiatrist Hannibal Lecter is unstoppable! After experiencing attempts on both their lives, as well as a series of trying court dates, Graham and Lecter are reportedly engaged, multiple sources tell us._

_Graham and Lecter have never publicly addressed their reported relationship, but on January 18, Graham was spotted leaving a liquor store in Beverly Grove sporting a simple, wedding-style band on one hand, likely an engagement ring from Lecter._

_“They are two sides of the same coin,” says one insider. “They would never use the words ‘in love’, but you can feel electricity in the air between them. They’re so in sync. They’re part of each other.”_

_Another source provided a photo that seems to show Lecter mid-proposal at a private event last week. (CLICK THROUGH TO READ MORE)_

\- - -

__  
18 January 2014. LACMA.org. “ **Coming Soon: Evil Minds**.”  


_In collaboration with MGM, private collectors, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the USC School of Cinematic Arts, this special exhibition brings together over one thousand years’ worth of Evil rendered in its changing forms from Satan to serial killers, Belial to Bundy, to a multitude of philosophical turning points along the course of human history. We are invited to interrogate the network of relationships between fine art, pop culture, and religious iconography, and how they have come to shape our concept of evil today: intimate, insidious, and troublingly human. No longer a force of nature or of the supernatural unknown, Evil - as we imagine it today - is thoroughly manmade._

_Register early to reserve space at the opening night guest panel with our host, actor Will Graham, and speakers from the fields of art history, philosophy, and theology._

\- - -

__  
19 January 2014. TattleTime blog post.  


_Let’s get real for a bit and stop the celebrity chatter for a few minutes._

_You guys, I don’t want to get in the habit of being a tabloid because that’s not my kind of journalism. I may be based in L.A. and I may share space on your newsfeeds with TMZ, but I didn’t grow this platform to write about Hollywood stars and their romances._

_Originally, I was an unsolved crimes writer._

_Yeah, you read that right. I chased stories from Baltimore to New York to DC to Boston. When I got blacklisted in local circles for asking the wrong (or right) people in law enforcement and politics too damn many questions, I packed my things, moved out west, and now, I use my investigative talents to hold the famous, rich, and powerful accountable to YOU. (And to me, but mainly to you.)_

_I sometimes still feel the pull of wanting to bring closure to the families of cold-case missing persons, or arguing the case of those wrongly incarcerated by the system. But the work I do now (which is essentially a mixture of probing, problem-solving and due diligence) is a little like that in spirit, too, in that it’s for the regular, everyday, concerned citizen getting the wool pulled over their eyes by the big man somehow._

_What does my work now entail? A lot of things, some expected, some less so. On the more mundane end, it might involve cross-checking meeting schedules, picking apart public statements, combing through social media, or cold-calling publicists to grill them. And on stranger days, I might find myself sneaking into events, creatively obtaining legal records, questioning undercover contacts, or liaising with specialists on conflicts of interest and other shady dealings._

_City of Angels, my ass._

_Basically: in a city of narcissists, liars, and cheats - or WORSE - all looking to sell you shit or control your thoughts, I’m looking out for you. I’m here to stop the Hollywood machine from converting us all into a senseless, obedient mass of consumers._

_That said..._

_The internet is abuzz lately with glowing praise for Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, as well as well-wishes for a happy (rumored) engagement that Graham’s people have yet to explicitly confirm. (Not that they ever will, per their M.O.) Part of my duty as L.A.’s resident tattletale is to ask you to stop and think before getting swept up by the excitement of trending hashtags and the temptation to invest in a rocky love story with a happy ending._

_I’d like to draw your attention to the following food for thought:_  
_1\. In quick succession, both Graham and Lecter were the targets of two separate (?) violent incidents around Thanksgiving. Both attacks (?) were explained away as simple stalker cases._  
_2\. In neither situation was the perp taken into custody, so no statements are available. Tobias Budge supposedly escaped down the highway; Randall Tier is...well, dead._  
_3\. Budge’s boyfriend, Franklyn Froideveaux, is also Graham’s assistant, and he immediately traveled to Europe after the Budge incident. He is still unreachable for comment._  
_4\. Graham went through trial and acquittal for Randall Tier’s death in breakneck speed._  
_5\. Lecter was photographed shopping for jewelry - probably Graham’s engagement ring - with Graham’s agent._  
_6\. Lecter supposedly proposed to Graham within a week of the acquittal verdict (and after less than a year of unconfirmed dating). How very humanizing and timely._  
_7\. The first trailer for Graham’s upcoming big-budget, mystery-action-horror flick dropped right after that, and it soared straight to record-breaking heights on YouTube._

_____ _

_____ _

__

__

_Some of this is just very convenient, isn’t it? I have SO MANY questions._

_What are the missing halves of the supposed stalker stories: what was Budge’s POV, or Tier’s? Does Froideveaux know anything, and is that why he’s apparently been sent out of the country? Who shops for engagement rings with their boyfriend’s agent, if it the engagement isn’t purely for business reasons? Was the Ripper trailer release timed for the Graham-Lecter engagement? And what about Graham’s erratic behavior last year, his penchant for the macabre, and last summer’s string of still-unsolved, brutal slayings? Is Graham the product of a new strain of aggressive, no-holds-barred, life-imitates-art branding, or is his strangeness thanks to a little more than just method acting?_

_I’m all for creative marketing strategies...when they’re strictly above-board. But this one is starting to look like it has a body count..._

_\- Freddie_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reframed from early S03  
> \- Sogliato and Fell, of course!
> 
> Reframed from S03E13 Wrath of the Lamb:  
> \- "You righteous, reckless, twitchy little man"  
> \- "However you think you’re going to manipulate this situation to your advantage, think again"


End file.
